


There Are No Strings On Me

by mrwonderwoman (fem_castielnovak)



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Clint Barton Needs a Hug, Curse Breaking, Fairy Tale Elements, First Time, Gen, Love Confessions, M/M, Pinocchio AU, Slow Burn, True Love's Kiss, life at the circus, mercenary Clint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-12
Updated: 2017-07-13
Packaged: 2018-11-30 08:06:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 24,190
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11459484
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fem_castielnovak/pseuds/mrwonderwoman
Summary: "So you can go ahead and play shoulder angel - see if you can make a difference or not - but that's the way things are and I don't see them changing anytime soon."Phil looks over him analytically. Clint meets his gaze evenly, but it's discomfiting to feel so judged, and it's a struggle not to fidget. Phil just watches him."Are you happy here?" he asks finally.*******A Pinocchio AU in the sense that there's a fairy, the personification of a conscience, and loose but relatively parallel plot points.





	1. Like A Bolt Out Of The Blue

**Author's Note:**

> Ch 1 is the main story and it can be read on its own  
> Ch 2 is the segue  
> Ch 3 is your basic, whole grain Phlint smut  
>   
> All titles are taken from the lyrics of _Pinocchio_ songs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know how you come up with a story and it won't go away until you write it out, even if you end up thinking that maybe it's really not that good and you should *really* just stop writing it? Yeah ...

 

 

Clint likes that the stars are the same no matter where he goes. He's heard the sentiment before, and he'll probably hear it again from other people who live their lives on the road. But it's personal for him at the moment. He watches them stagnate in the sky as the little, rickety storage cart that he rides (and sleeps) in rolls along. Sometimes he wonders if it looks as cartoonish from the outside as it feels, riding on the inside - the way it bobs and teeters like it's got misshapen wheels. It makes him think of really old Mickey Mouse cartoons. He isn't sure why that is; he's only seen a handful of cartoons, period. He can't think of where he'd seen that old one. Those old ones? He doesn't know.  
A pothole shakes the carriage and he nearly slips off his perch. The boxes he's sitting on continue to wiggle even after the roll has smoothed out. A break in the treeline gives him a beautiful view of the inky sky above an open field. Clint eats it up; hungry for moments of peace and beauty even if he doesn't actively search for it. 

He wonders how long it's been since he wished on a star; if it was before or after he'd given up trying to be brave, truthful, and unselfish. On one hand, wishes are easier than actually trying; but then again, wishes require faith, and Clint is always going to rely on himself before he trusts anything else. 

It doesn't really matter. At all. Both points are moot and he's stuck here one way or another. Hiding has kept him safe, lies protect him, and selfishness is all that stands between him being whole or ending up in a thousand pieces, face down in a ditch. 

He wonders if Barney could have had any clue at all, when he'd sent him out into the world, that this might be the sort of life awaiting him. Clint chuckles darkly to himself; he's sure that Barney and the Red Fairy had both forgotten about him long ago. He flops backwards onto the sturdy cardboard of his perch. Listens to the silence of the space around him. He frowns when, for a moment, he thinks he hears a tiny tapping noise. 

"Are you Clinton Francis Barton?"

The unexpected voice has Clint sitting upright in the blink of an eye. He hadn't heard anyone enter the compartment (not that the caravan is going slowly enough for anyone to get on) and nothing had caught his peripheral vision (which is excellent). His eyes dart around the cramped space but it isn't until he looks towards the floor that he notices a mouse on the corner of the box, near where his head had been. He jumps back again, pressing himself against the small window.

"Apologies," the voice says again, and Clint looks around the room until his eyes land back on the mouse, whose head is now inclined. 

"I didn't mean to startle you." And yeah, Clint can definitely see its little mouth moving. 

"Wh- w- ?" 

"Are you Clinton Francis Barton, though?" 

"Fuck," Clint mumbles. "Um, yeah?" The mouse scoots a little closer to him. "Who- why is a mouse talking to me?  _How_  is there a mouse talking to me?"

"It seems that we're both victims of strange circumstance. I've been visited by the Red Fairy."

"The Red-" he snorts and lets his head fall back against the glass. He takes a deep breath and stares at the ceiling. 

"Are you alright?"

Clint sighs but doesn't look away from the ugly grain of the wood above him. "Yeah, just wondering what fresh hell this is gonna turn out to be."

"I'm not sure I understand."

"You've got a weird voice for a mouse," he comments, wondering if maybe he's just asleep. He slides his hands along the smooth cardboard beneath his palms. 

"Well it's not something that I picked for myself."

Clint waits for him to elaborate; make an excuse or an explanation, but none comes. Okay, then; "So..."

"So?"

"So, why are you here?" he turns his head to ask the question. 

Clint thinks he might hear a minute sigh, "I was warned that you might not be receptive to the idea, but I've been sent by the Red Fairy to help you in your efforts to become a real boy. Does that make sense to you?"

Clint stares at him. The mouse blinks.

"You have  **got**  to be  _shitting_  me." He covers his face and groans. The carriage bumps a few times and starts listing to the side. 

"She seems to think you've stagnated, somewhat," the mouse adds, apparently ignoring Clint's outburst in favor of getting back to business. 

Clint stares at the mouse, incredulous. "And how, exactly, are  _you_  supposed to help me?"

He looks like he might mustering himself up, shifting so he seems taller, "I'm to act as your conscience, and your guide. Help you know right from wrong, and make decisions."

"What, a carney upbringing not good enough for her?" Clint sneers, instantly on the offensive. 

"No," the mouse replies patiently, "It's your mentors that she seems to take issue with."

"My mentors? Fuck that. Trickshot just makes me practice and keeps me looking presentable." He huffs, "And screw her, if she thinks I need fixing she should come tell me herself."

"I'm fairly sure that we're not her only charity cases. Is there something I should know about that makes us any more special than anyone else she's taken an interest in?"

Is this mouse being sarcastic? Clint shrugs discontentedly, "Fuck if I know."

"Then I suggest you accept the help that she has offered you and in turn, let me do what she's asked me to do and be for you."

Clint analyzes him for a moment, "What are you getting out of this?" he asks, eyes narrowed.

The mouse shrugs, "A higher level of sentience?"

"'S that something your little mouse heart has always desired?"

"No, but I feel that if I were to revert back now, I'd always know that something was missing, but never be sure of what."

Clint thinks that doesn't sound as fishy as it could, or maybe should. He sits forward, "Got a name?"

"Phil."

"Okay, Phil. I'm gonna go to sleep now, and if you're still here when I wake up, then we'll talk." Clint drops back down onto his back. When Phil doesn't respond at all, he rolls over onto his side to stare out the window as the carriage rocks him to sleep.

 

 

"Rise and shine, puppet," the Strongman calls out in his thick Romanian accent. It doesn't sound as nice as when Magda calls him that, but it's affectionate nonetheless. Clint sits up and rubs his eyes, the porcelain of his hand and face clicking together as he does so. He blinks and looks around at the line of men outside the trailer, waiting for the strong man to hand them boxes and trappings from where he's ducked in the doorway. 

Clint clambers down from his perch, legs swinging mid-air before he lands in a crouch on the creaky boards of the wagon floor. He skirts around the men, snatching up his bow and quiver from their hook on the wall, then wiggles his way through the door and down the steps, moving out into the crowd as they go about the setup routine of getting ready for tomorrow night's performance. 

He'd seen the movement and felt the weight in his shirt pocket, but had elected to acknowledge anything until he was out in the throng of everyone. 

"So you're real then," Clint mumbles, careful not to move his lips too much. 

Phil worms his way up into a sort of standing position, shaking his ears out once his head is poking up above the lip of the pocket. "Do I need to agree with that assessment, or can we move on to achieving our goals?"

"I don't even know what you want from me." Clint keeps scanning the bustling crowd, but hasn't decided where to go yet. Magda won't have time for him while she's supervising the brutes who unload her delicate cargo. Emile won't pay attention to Clint unless there's nothing left to do. Paula's not going to have patience for him, not after he'd spent so much time with her while she was sick. He doesn't take it personally; even Clint doesn't like spending time with just himself. Clint glances at Phil who's watching him strangely. Yeah, he's definitely not going to go seek out Trickshot or the Swordsman, either. With Clint's luck they'd just pick today to prove the mouse right in his assessment of Clint's mentors. 

"We could start with confronting-"

"Nope," Clint popped the 'p' for emphasis on how out of the question that particular suggestion was. He can feel the mouse staring at him intently, and then scrambling out of the pocket and up onto his shoulder. They're far enough away from anyone else that Clint doesn't bother trying to do anything to keep him out of sight. 

"Did you know that you have a crack through your ear?

"Yep."

"Are you going to go practice with your bow?"

"Nope." 

"Then what is it we're doing?"

"Nothing." He scrambles out of the way of large men carrying around the stadium seats. There's a moment of almost frustrated silence from his companion. 

"If you aren't going to cooperate then why even bother dealing with me at all?"

Clint spots Aadhya's tiny, back room tent already set up. The dance troupe always manages to make one spot of shade before anything else; the perks of having numbers. They'll all be busy erecting the dressing room tent or helping out at the Big Top now, but Aadhya won't mind him hiding out in her private tent for a little. She's always telling him to stay out of the way and keep his ears covered. Clint thinks it might be an idiom that was lost in translation but he likes the way it sounds applied to him. 

"I'm dealing with you. I just don't have the patience to answer a lot of stupid questions right now." 

He sweeps back the fabric-flap covering the entrance and glances at the space's familiar contents before pulling a stool out from beneath the edge of a tablecloth. He takes a seat and sets his bow and quiver on the ground, then uses his free hands to scoop Phil up off his shoulder and hold him in his cupped palms.

"I've been sentient for thirteen years but I look like I'm eight. I don't have to deal with growing pains, or puberty, or scrapes and bruises and broken bones and getting sick. I'm also treated like I'm incredibly fragile. I don't get opportunities to be brave," he pauses for emphasis, eyes flicking back and forth between Phil's tiny black ones. "Everyone here is a con artist, and I lie on a nightly basis if only because of the stories Trickshot makes up to go with my act. Being selfless here is just going to make me look suspicious. Around here, we take what we can get. And it's not like I have food or a sleeping space to share. I kind of need everything I've got." Clint leans back, satisfied with how he's put the situation forward and lain everything out - how obvious he's made it that his curse is unbreakable. "So you can go ahead and play shoulder angel - see if you can make a difference or not - but that's the way things are and I don't see them changing anytime soon."

Phil looks over him analytically. Clint meets his gaze evenly, but it's discomfiting to feel so judged by a mouse. 

"Are you happy here?" he asks finally. 

Clint flounders for a moment.  
"I-"

"There you are," Trickshot calls from the entryway, voice laced with admonition. "I've been looking all over for you. Come on, the range is all set up." He holds back the curtain, but Clint knows not to take his time. He scoops up his bow and quiver from the ground and shrugs enough to jostle Phil off his shoulder, but the mouse manages to keep a grip on the fabric of Clint's shirt and slide back into the pocket. That's just fine by Clint; if he can keep up, he can stay.

Training is rough. Trickshot yells a lot, and he doesn't even take a break for lunch, which means Clint doesn't get a break. He doesn't screw up the routine noticeably so Trickshot isn't too mean and he doesn't make Clint keep practicing too long after dark though that might just be because he has plans to go into town with the Swordsman. Clint also manages to escape with only a light cuff to the back of his head. No new cracks or borderline fractures today. Clint calls it a good day.   
Of course, when he gets back to his trailer, Phil wants to talk.

"Who was that?"

"Trickshot. He's the one who found me and made me join the circus." Clint flops back onto the mostly empty boxes still inside the compartment. 

"You didn't want to?"

Clint shakes his head, "I guess he heard me singing to myself or saw me and realized I wasn't normal or something. I mean I kinda stuck out like a sore thumb in the middle of Nowhere, Iowa. So I stayed home a lot, tried to keep out of sight so people didn't notice a doll walking around of its own free will. But Barney had sent me to the store to get groceries, told me I should keep my eyes out and start to learn about the world just by lookin'." He wonders if it was obvious, even then, that he had phenomenal eyesight. "Said he was working on gettin something together for us. Trickshot, he came up to me just before I got to the grocery store. Told me Barney'd sent him. That he was with the circus that'd come to town and they were leaving soon but that Carson - the owner - had heard about me and wanted my brother n' me to join up, so I should come with him. And it sounded right; I mean he knew Barney's name, and Barn was always talking about making something of ourselves." Clint shrugs uncomfortably. "I don't really wanna talk about it. But he trained me up. One day he caught me messing around with some of the game booth rifles and saw how good my aim was. So he gave me a bow and started training me to be in his act with him 'stead of just being a singing puppet." 

"That's what you do now?"

"No. Trickshot made me the feature. He doesn't have to do as much work or keep in shape that way. He's still part of the act; does my intro, tells whatever story about me he thinks will sell the best in the town we're in. Trains me, keeps me clothed and out of harm's way."

"When he's not harming you himself."

Clint looks away and tries not to think about how the mouse could have come to that conclusion after a day that was pretty good by Clint's books.

"I'm going to sleep now."

Clint closes his eyes and listens for anything else to happen. 

"Goodnight," Phil says softly after a moment. 

Clint peeks through his eyelashes and watches the mouse curl up in a ball and settle in before he lets himself drift off.   
When he wakes up, he expects to be mad at the mouse for being so invasive. They've barely known each other for a day and he's already gotten up under his skin. Instead, Clint stares at the rise and fall of the little, furry lump, wondering how long it'll take him to get used to someone being around him all the time. 

 

 

 

It takes a week for him to really warm up to Phil, and to stop calling him "the mouse." The first time he does it out loud, Phil seems perkier for the rest of the day. But he doesn't comment on the change, which Clint is grateful for. 

The next night he talks about his act and his time here at the circus.

"Hawkeye, the bird boy," he mimics in Trickshot's voice, "A puppet without strings; He dances, he sings, he never misses!"

"'Bird boy?'" Phil asks. 

Clint shakes his head and bats his hand dismissively, "Something Trickshot came up with. 'Cause I'm small and fragile," he taps his porcelain skin, "Arms like bird bones. Also, 'cause in my act I sing - it's what I did before I had my archery act. And I sometimes go on the high-wire, or swing from the trapeze when I'm making shots. So there's the whole flying-motif. Thing. Whatever."  
He doesn't mention that it  _was_ Magda's affectionate nickname for him. That Trickshot had nearly laughed his ass off the first time he'd heard her call Clint that, and that he'd excused it by saying he was only cracking up so much because of how accurate it was. But Clint's been good at telling spite from amusement for a while now. 

The night after that he's quiet for a long time until he finds himself talking about life before the circus; about Barney and his mom and his mom's doll-making shop. About how the Red Fairy granted his mother's wish for him to come to life and be a companion to his brother. About how, when she died, he and Barney had to rely on each other to survive. He lets Phil make his own silent conjectures, and he talks until he falls asleep mid-sentence. 

He realizes there's probably a reason he's spilling his guts. Maybe it's because he's hungry for conversation or attention or maybe he's just a fucking masochist. But somebody's finally listening to him so he may as well say something. And Phil's a mouse; what's he gonna do? ( _Leave, he could leave_ ) So what? If he leaves, Clint can just find another animal to talk to. It's not like this place isn't crawling with rodents. Now that he's had a taste, he can put up with a substitute.

And with that, Clint's weeks begin to shape into a new sort of routine.   
On Mondays, every few weeks, they pack up and head out of town. Tuesdays and Wednesdays are spent traveling, usually. Thursdays are spent setting up the carnival and practicing. Fridays, Saturdays, and Sundays are used for shows and cleanup. Sometimes if the town's small enough, they'll get a day of rest on Sunday but that doesn't happen too often these days - a weekend is a weekend and ready money talks. Clint practices and does his act and helps the barkers along the game booths talk people out of their money, then cleans up the mess that the townies always, always leave behind. That part of his schedule is normal. The change comes to his breaks and his evenings, which he spends talking to Phil.   
Where before, he lived for hiding in the shadows, and shining under the spotlight and nothing in between, Clint has now settled into the role of storyteller quite well. It's hard at first; Phil has a lot of questions and most of them aren't ones that Clint wants to answer. But they manage to work around it, and the payoff is worth it. Traveling becomes infinitely more entertaining now that the hours can be filled with conversation. During the normal weeks, Phil talks to him in his ear about his opinions of the circus members, asking questions ("Why do the Bearded Lady and the Yak Woman avoid one another?") and making dry humor his pastime of choice ("Strange, I wasn't aware that the World's Tallest Man moonlighted as the World's Most Disgusting Man."). Clint gets good at talking under his breath and stifling his outward shows of amusement. He also savors the sudden, plentiful amount of opportunities he has to laugh. 

And Phil is a fantastic conversationalist. For a mouse, he has a wide range of knowledge and interests. He has yet to alienate Clint with any of his discussion choices, though; he doesn't make Clint feel stupid or annoying, or bad for suddenly changing the topic. Sometimes, while Clint's practicing, Phil will go off on his own and come back with gossip or interesting things he finds. If it's too heavy for him to carry, he'll tell Clint about it and they'll go find it together while everyone else is eating. The best things he's found so far are two unmatched earrings, a circus member's draft of a poem (which is still under investigation when Clint gets bored), a broken locket, two water-stained romance novels (which Clint continues to reread), a pick your own adventure story, $5.17 in change, a nice ballpoint pen, and a Captain America comic.

Nine months go by before Clint realizes that Phil is his friend, and that he doesn't feel lonely anymore. Before Phil had gotten there, Clint hadn't even realized that he'd spent four years at the circus feeling alone.   
It's almost summer again, by then. But there's still enough time before the season really picks up for Trickshot to keep pushing for him to start adding new things to his act, the way he always does in the spring. He's had this idea about the high-wire for the past few years that sounds horribly reckless and completely insane for a boy made of ceramic. Clint's been able to worm his way out of it every time but it continues to be a near thing. Trickshot had been drunk last night - no surprise there - and trying to talk him into it again, but once more, nothing had come of it. They've just gotten into a new town, so hopefully it'll be a few days before Trick has enough spare time to wheedle him again.   
Today, he has Clint running drills and going through his routine for the entire day, but he's not much for conversation and Clint manages to keep his head down and in good enough space to not fuck up. So he lets Clint go just as the sun is beginning to set and everyone else is starting to congregate for dinner. Clint goes and sits by the stove, out of the way but enjoying the conversation and metaphorical warmth of the open-air meal tent. He gets to hear the best gossip this way; no one pays attention to him so their tongues are unreserved. On more than one occasion he's gleaned valuable and useful information from just sitting in a corner and letting everyone go about their business. Phil is quiet, but then (as Clint suspected from the very first) he's proven his ability to handle himself and keep out of the way. It takes all night, but as the last few people are on their way out when he learns that they're in Cedar Falls, Iowa. 

_Iowa_. 

Clint has almost no concept of geography, beyond the occasional glimpse of a roadmap or the kids' menus at diners with artful depictions of the United States on the back. But he knows that Waverly, Iowa is where Trickshot picked him up, and it's the last place he saw Barney. 

He's quiet on the way back to the little, rickety wagon. Phil calls his name a couple of times, but Clint doesn't say anything until he's clambered back up onto what's left of the box pile he'd slept on last night. It's just high enough for him to see the countryside out the window when he's sitting up. He's quiet as he lays down and stares out at the moon and stars. There's a shift in weight and tiny claws scratching on fabric as Phil crawls out of his pocket. He sits up on his haunches at a distance so Clint doesn't have to shift his focus from the window. 

"Are you happy here?" Phil asks him; the same question from all those months ago. 

Clint's eyes drag across his field of vision to lock onto him, but float back to the moon. It's quiet for a long while, and then Clint shakes his head. 

"I want to go home," he whispers into the dark. It's something he's never considered. He's been helpless so long - manipulated by Trickshot and flung far and wide across the continental United States, without anyone on or at his side. He'd never had any real hope of seeing Barney again, or escaping the circus. (Where would he go if he did?) It's been a safe haven for him - protection from the dangers that the world poses for a ceramic boy. He'd also never considered that they might venture back to Iowa - no one ever tells him where they are when they get to a new town. (Now he wonders if that's on purpose). He thinks they might be close to Waverly. 

The mouse nods, "We can do that."

"How?" Clint rasps, suddenly desperate for an escape. He can feel his protective emotional hardness cracking with the longing to get back to Barney and be the companion to his brother that he was meant to be. 

"I can get a map," Phil says and suddenly the words are a promise. "You don't need food or much sleep and you won't get tired from physical activity. You'd just need to be careful not to crack or break yourself while we travel. You can do that, can't you?" Clint doesn't respond. "No one will notice if you're gone after tomorrow night's performance," Phil tells him quietly, "No one will be able to follow you if they've got another show to get ready for on Saturday night." He's right. He's so, so right. "We can take your bow and your arrows and leave."

That's what wins Clint over. Not only is Phil is smart, he has both Clint's best interest  _and_  his wishes in mind. It's too good to be true, but Clint doesn't feel like he can stand to be at the circus another hour. He wants to go home. 

"Okay," he whispers, closing his eyes against the wave of hope that surges at this promise to himself. Too many promises in one night. One of them is bound to break. 

The slow skitter of claws preludes the barest brush of warm fur against Clint's knuckles. Clint's eyes crack open and he watches Phil settle millimeters away from touching his hand. 

"Okay," the mouse mutters in reply.   
Clint flexes one finger out to press up along his side.   
They both fall asleep. 

 

He wakes up nervous. He sits upright, startled and alert in the silence of early morning, and stares at the door of the compartment. It's closed and no one's making any noise outside, but Clint half expects Trickshot or the Swordsman or fucking Carson to come barging in accusing him of disloyalty and swearing to lock him up until he can behave himself.

_Hawkeye, the bird boy; caged at last!_

He fists his hands in the hem of his shirt.   
He turns to look at where Phil's still curled up on the box top. He doesn't think the mouse is still asleep, but he calls out his name softly anyways. Phil arches his back and walks in a small circle before scampering over to Clint and climbing up his arm and into his pocket. 

Everyone who's up will be making their way towards the meal tent but Clint grabs his bow off the wall and heads out through the tall, dewy grass to where Trickshot had set up the range for him. 

He practices and watches the sunlight spread across the field. After a while, he catches sight of Trickshot approaching, carrying a steaming mug. He stands at a distance, looking half asleep and making Clint feel more self-critical than ever. Once Trickshot's there, Phil creeps out of Clint's pocket the first time he goes to retrieve his arrows. Clint keeps practicing while trying not to think about where Phil is. 

When it's his turn to practice in the ring, Trickshot takes him and has him sit in the bleachers while the pony show finishes up. A number of the people who actually like Clint are in it, so it's nice that he gets to watch them for a few minutes. He wonders about Phil again as he watches them all clear out. 

A whistle catches Clint's attention and Trickshot jerks a thumb towards the empty ring. Clint slings his bow and quiver across his back and scrambles out to the curtain to practice his entrance. On perfect cue, he backflips into the center of the ring and upon nailing his landing, posing with his arms held high, he whirls into more gymnastics while his coach spouts bullshit. 

Trickshot narrates like he always does, and Clint pays attention to the story being told for this town, now, so that he doesn't get distracted by the new lie during the show. They're interesting to think about. Sometimes they make Clint wonder about what his life could have been. 

Once he's done with the story, Trickshot starts up the background tune for his song and it plays over the loudspeaker. Clint sings and dances and does acrobatics all at once. Last season they added in a bit where he juggles flaming batons and that really gets some 'ooh's and 'ahh's from the crowd.

It hits him then that this is his last rehearsal. Tonight will be his last performance. He's elated at once, shutting off any nostalgia that might try to make itself known. This will be his best performance yet - he'll actually be able to enjoy it without the next night and the next and the next or any more spotlight-filled evenings hanging over his head.   
When the music ends, Clint does a backflip that ends in a bow, like he always does. And like always, he hears Trickshot scoff even though it was the bastard's idea. Clint just happened to really, really like it. Trickshot clears his throat and takes up his narration again while Clint gets climbs the first ladder and gets into place for the archery routine. He loses himself in the movements:  _nock, draw, release, nock, draw, release, change position..._  It's nice to know he's good at something and he's really proud of himself today. At the end, he stands from his position on the lowest platform and musters himself to do a triple flip off of the edge to land in a tumble and stand for another couple of bows. Trickshot claps sarcastically and Clint does an extra bow directed at him for which he gets a muttered, "Smartass." 

But rehearsal is over and Trickshot wants to go into town with the Swordsman like he always does whenever they have the spare time. And even though Clint doesn't get tired or worn out, he gets time to himself to rest before a performance just like everyone else. Even if it's just because Trickshot wants to ditch him for a few hours, who is Clint to protest? He's getting free-time where he isn't forced to be an archery robot.

Clint decides to go visit everyone who likes him as well as some people that he wishes liked him, just to say goodbye. He hangs out in different tents until he can tell it's best for him to leave or he gets kicked out. He's happy when it gets close to sunset and he's actually checked off everyone on his mental goodbye list. He makes his way back to the little trailer and finds Phil sitting on top of the box by the window, like usual. But this time, he can see a shadowy shape beside his friend in the dim twilight of the compartment. 

"You find the map?" he asks, trying to keep a huge grin off his face. He didn't realize how exciting this would be. 

Phil walks onto the neatly crinkled piece of paper to flatten out the folds, "It was easier than I thought it would be."

Clint nods at the other, shadowed object beside him, "What's that?"

"Unpaid wages," Phil says as he pushes a small velveteen coinpurse towards Clint. "It's not stealing." 

Clint snorts. "Sure, it's not," he scoffs. "You know how to read this thing?" he asks, picking up the map before Phil can say anything. 

"Hopefully we won't need it and we can just buy a bus ticket, but I think I've figured it out. I watched the road signs out the window yesterday and I spent the afternoon finding them on the map. I'm almost certain I can get us to Waverly." 

Clint looks over the width of the state map with its mostly-meaningless indicators, and numbers within different colored shapes, and lines of varying thickness. He can't read any of it - can only recognize a few words - but the idea that a way to get home is on here makes him hopeful. More hopeful than he'd even been last night, because now, things have started falling into place. He tucks the map and the purse into the pocket on the side of his quiver, then he holds out his hand for Phil. 

"Come on," he says when the mouse gives him a funny look, "I want you to see the performance. You've never seen the whole thing, and tonight's gonna be great."

Phil hops a step closer and puts one paw on the edge of Clint's hand but doesn't get into his cupped palm. "I can't very well sit in your pocket the whole time."

"No way. There's no good view from my pocket, and besides, you've done that before." That had been a great time; having Phil close enough to hear, knowing he saw everything and then got a bird's-eye-view of his performance. The conversation that night after they'd done it had made Clint feel like the first time he'd gotten to perform in his own act all over again. He'd done it as many times as he could manage after that, despite the dangers.  

"I'm gonna find you a good perch now while everyone's still filing in."

He sneaks in to a support beam in front of the best seating and fits Phil high up, in the crook of the crossbeams where he'll have a good view and won't be noticed by anyone. He grins at the mouse then shimmies back down the beam and makes his way backstage to get ready. 

 

 

His performance is stellar. It doesn't hit him until he's nailed his final landing, arms in a proud V above his head after making a double a backflip straight off the ground at the end of his routine. There's a hot moment of silence and then the audience erupts into applause - a  _standing ovation_.   
In an effort to enjoy and make the most of his last night in the spotlight, he'd gone above and beyond what his normal routine had called for. Triple flips became quadruples, his dance was fleet and charming and full of twirls and flourishes, he balanced a flaming baton on his nose. He moved like the wind and sang like a songbird. 

And he got a goddam standing ovation. 

God, Trickshot should've incentivized his training program years ago. Or maybe it's just being at the brink of freedom. 

He shoots a look to Phil's hiding spot, but it appears as a wry grin for the audience. Then he skips backstage to clear the ring for the next act. He has a small crowd waiting for him. None of them know that this evening is special beyond an extra spectacular performance. But they praise him nonetheless. There are kisses on the forehead from the showgirls and proud, beatific smiles accompanied by pats on the cheek from Magda and Aadhya. A couple of the older men even ruffle his hair and flash him grins. Trickshot may be quick with the back of a hand, but he also never fails to tell Clint when he's met his standards. 

"Good job, kid," he tells him with a pat on the head as he walks past him towards the Swordsman. Clint smiles after him; it's nice that Clint gets to end their relationship on a good note. He isn't going to think about what the end of their relationship will look like from Trickshot's point of view. 

As soon as no one's paying attention to him anymore, he sneaks out and around the side of the tent until he can shimmy up one of the support beams. This is usually the part of the show he enjoys the most; when the pressure is off and he can just sit and enjoy everybody else's performances. But this time, he crawls along the beams, sneaking over to fetch his friend. The crowd's adulations are a wall of noise below them as Clint makes his way back down and outside. 

"How'd you like the show?" he asks once they're a few yards away from the tent's back entrance. Phil wriggles up out of the pocket and down to Clint's hand. Clint's noticed him do this when he wants to look at Clint instead of just be a voice in his ear. 

"Clint that was the most fantastic thing I've ever seen in my life."

"And you're a talking mouse who's friends with a living puppet-boy!" Clint teases with a grin. 

Phil sits up on his haunches. "I realize how important for you it was that I be there to see your last show. And I want you to know I appreciate it."

"Aww, Phil," Clint derides, "you're such a fuckin sap."

Phil shakes his head and gives his little mousey smile, "I let you get away with so much shit."

Clint grins wide enough for his face to hurt, "Naw, you keep me on the straight and narrow alright. I just act up enough to give you job security." 

"Speaking of," Phil says, with a meaningful paw placed on Clint's thumb, "I think it's time for us to go. Do you have everything?"

Clint nods and takes a deep breath, looking up towards the road that leads to town. He stops by the trailer to grab a little bag of the things they've collected that belong to them and double checks that the map and the coinpurse are both in the pocket of his quiver, still. Then, they make the long walk into town. It's a much shorter trip than he'd expected, and it feels like within minutes they're entering the bus station. 

Clint's learned that over the years, as long as people don't get to close or touch him, they'll assume he's perfectly human or that he's got medical problems or is wearing a costume. If he doesn't make a big fuss or act funny, no one else does either. 

He's quick to approach the ticket-window at the back of the large waiting room.   
"Ma'am?" he says in his best corn-fed accent.

The lady looks down and over the edge of the counter. "Can I help you?" she asks, sounding concerned. Clint doesn't let himself roll his eyes. 

"Yes, ma'am I'm tryin' to reach Waverly, Iowa. Can you give me the bus ticket that'll take me the closest to there?"

"Aren't you a little young to be traveling alone? Where are your parents?" 

"Oh, I've done this type'a thing before, just not here, so I don't know what bus to take or how much the ticket is."

The woman looks skeptical so Clint pulls out the purse and counts out a few twenties.   
"Will this cover it?" he asks, as innocent and wide-eyed as he can manage. 

She watches him a moment longer but he just blinks and finally she sighs and takes the bills from him before clicking away at her well-worn keyboard. A ticket prints out and she hands it to him along with his change. 

"The ride's about a half hour long but the next bus is the last one and it leaves in five minutes, so get on out there."

"Thank you, ma'am," he says, taking the papers carefully from her and smiling coyly. 

"Be careful," she calls after him as he makes his way out to the bus depot. 

"Not a word," he mutters to Phil before the mouse gets the chance to so much as snicker at his exaggerated accent. 

The ride drags on, but the light over their seat makes it possible for Clint to get one of the romance novels out for them to read. It's a struggle to follow along with it when he's so anxious, but he only gives up when he glances up and catches sight of the road sign for Waverly out his window.   
He wonders at what's been going through Barney's head all these years. If he's given up hope on ever seeing him again or not. Will he be able to recognize his brother?

Guilt begins to eat away at Clint, aimless and horrible inside him. 

The bus lurches to a halt and he's quick to shove the paperback into his bag.

Everything's damp when he dismounts from the steps. The air doesn't smell like rain anymore but it's late enough in the evening that the water hasn't gone anywhere. Clint takes in his surroundings ( _quickly, because that's his specialty and, quite frankly, all he's got at the moment_ ). He figures the convenience store across the street is his best bet. It only takes a few minutes of evasive answers and his own questions before he's back on the sidewalk with verbal directions and headed back to his old home. 

The walk is long and in this instance, Clint is glad that Phil leaves him to his thoughts for once. He's back to wondering what things would've been like if Barney had been taken into the circus. He hates thinking about it, but what's worse is the flood of panic he's been keeping at bay, that when he gets back to their old home Barney won't be there anymore. He's trying not to think that maybe he ended up dead at their father's hands like their mother. But Barney was good at keeping himself safe. Clint's bigger worry is that he'll find his brother's sold the shop or up and left. 

It's begun to drizzle again by the time he reaches the storefront. He looks up above the awning at the yellow glow seeping out through the white curtains in the apartment over the shop. Well, somebody's up there. Hopefully they'll at least know something. He knocks loudly on the door. 

"Careful," Phil hisses from his pocket, as if Clint isn't perfectly aware how breakable his fist is. 

When he can't see any movement from upstairs, he presses the bell for good measure. He takes a step back to peer at the window again and catches a small movement at the edge of the curtain. He gives a wave and hopes that'll catch the interest of whomever is watching, even if they don't recognize him. Clint steps back under the awning after a minute, though. He's pretty damp by now but he doesn't want to get soaked. He stares at the darkness behind the textured glass of the door, shifting from foot to foot. Hope waxes when he sees a light come on from the direction he remembers the stairwell being. 

He straightens up when a shadow moves close to the door. The lock clicks and the door swings open to reveal an older but recognizable face. 

"Clint?"  
He grins up at the young man, "Hey, Barney."

Barney's face breaks into a grin. "Look at you!" he exclaims, scooping Clint up off the ground, into a bear hug. He's embarrassed, but this is also the most concentrated affection he's been shown in years. There are some perks to being the size of an eight-year old. He wraps his arms around his brother's neck as he's swung around.

"Cut it out," he says through his laughter. "You're gonna break my bow."

Barney puts him down inside the shop and Clint resists the urge to look around and soak everything in. 

"Damn," Barney says, standing akimbo and beaming at him.

Clint fidgets and nods towards the door behind Barney, "You're gonna flood the shop if you don't close that." 

Barney shakes his head but pulls the door shut and locks it back. 

"What are you doing here?" he asks when he turns around. There's still a bright smile on his face so Clint doesn't think he's mad.

"I came back," Clint offers, not sure how much else to say right off the bat. He doesn't know how Barney feels about him disappearing, and he doesn't want to hit him with too much off the bat.

"To stay?" Barney asks earnestly.

"If you'll have me..."

"'Course I will!" he says with a bark of laughter, reaching out to ruffle Clint's hair. Clint reaches up to lay it back flat and take off his hat. Barney walks around him behind the counter towards the hallway where the stairwell and back rooms are. 

"Come on up, I was just about to order dinner."

Clint takes a few hesitant steps as if to follow him, "Is dad still ...?"

Barney slows to a stop and looks over his shoulder, "No ... no, dad died about a year after you left."

Clint moves to keep following him up the stairs, "And you've been running the shop ever since?" He almost can't believe it. 

"As well as I can," Barney responds, but doesn't offer anything more. Clint will let it lie and wait to ask anything else about it. They cross the small apartment. "Come on in, put your stuff down," he says, ushering Clint to the old room that they shared. The beds are still the same, and he goes to lay his bow, and quiver, and bag on the far one. 

"I'm real glad you showed up when you did," Barney says from the doorway.

"Yeah? Why's that?"

"I'm leaving tomorrow or the day after."

"Leaving?" Clint turns around, and thinks that this is where his pulse would pick up if he had a heartbeat. 

"Yeah, a friend of mine has a gig set up out west and he wants my help with it." He smiles conspiratorially, "You ever been to Las Vegas?"

"Vegas?" Clint asks, voice sounding far more naive than he'd like. 

"Yeah; bright lights, big city, American capital of gambling?"

Clint nods absently.

"He wants me to come out and help him set up shop. Get a network going, help recruit people, start making some real money usin' smarts. Whaddaya say to bein' my partner?"

"Partner?" Clint asks and God, can he please shake that bewilderment in his tone?

"Sure!" Barney crows, "'Could always use another hand. Besides, it'll be nice to have someone on my side." He seems to realize the gravity of what he's said, and tries to cover it up by adding, "Not to mention it'll make the car ride go faster."

Clint understands that kind of loneliness and appreciation for company. He grins effortfully, but feels it slip away too quickly.

"Listen, Barn, about me leaving-"

But Barney's shaking his head halfway through Clint's sentence, "Naw, kid, don't worry about it. The past is the past." He ruffles Clint's hair once then brushes through it in an uncharacteristically gentle manner. "Just glad you're here now. The Barton boys together again, yeah?"

"Yeah," Clint says with a quiet smile. He really doesn't want to go into it right now. Not when he can just bask in his brother's company where he belongs. 

"Now go wash up. I'll call out for pizza."

Clint ducks his head to disguise it, but he maintains his smile all the way up the stairs and it grows a little as he pulls his old stool out from its place beneath the sink. He scrubs his face and hands carefully with the washcloth on the side of the sink and bites his tongue as Phil wiggles his way up onto Clint's shoulder. He's not sure he wants to know what Phil thinks of Barney in real life. 

"Do you really think you should go to Las Vegas?" 

Oh, so it's a matter of conscience. Phil only asks questions with that tone of voice and manner of phrasing when he's on conscience duty. 

Clint shrugs and keeps patting off his arms, "It doesn't sound so bad. He didn't say anything that really implies it's gonna be bad."

"Clint, what do you think your brother meant when he said his friend had a gig? They aren't in a band and I very much doubt they've got their own headliner act on the Las Vegas strip." Clint slows his movements but doesn't look away from the flesh-tone paint of his arms. 

"It's a gang, Clint. You know that. And the gig is probably going to be pick-pocketing or mugging or - God forbid - some nonsense like lifting cars. Which is a far cry from convincing willing customers to spend their money at rigged game booths. Committing actual crimes, not just bending morals, definitely won't help you become a real boy. But this is asking for an arrest, not just trouble."

"Jeez, Phil. You got all that from a handful of sentences?"

"Clint-"

"No, I get it, I get it." He sighs and makes eye-contact with Phil in the mirror, "It's probably physically dangerous, whatever it is. And I'm ... just foolin' myself I guess. ... I really don't want to leave Barney." 

Phil watches him right back, curling his tail up beside him on Clint's shoulder, "Maybe you won't have to."

 

Clint comes quietly back down the stairs, stopping when he gets halfway down and thinks he hears his brother in the next room over. 

"Barn?" he calls out. Barney pops his head around the doorway. "I don't think I can go with you to Vegas."

Barney frowns, "You want me to go without you?"

"No, I just ... with the curse and everything... I gotta stay on the straight and narrow, you know?"

"Yeah, but ... Clint, I already gave the guy my word."

Clint bites his lip, but shakily maintains his resolve, "Barn, I can't. I- I'll never-" he drifts off helplessly.

Barney's expression melts. He looks completely torn.

"Yeah, I know.  _Fuck_ ," he mutters, covering his face with a palm and going silent for long enough to make Clint nervous.

"Barn?"

He shakes his head and looks back up at Clint with a tight smile, "I'll figure something out." He takes a step backwards and waves Clint into the room, "C'mon, the pizza's on its way. Tell me whatcha been up to." 

 

They end up sitting in the living room and Clint tells Barney that he'd been in the circus. Barney has a million questions and Clint is flattered and delighted at the focused attention. The pizza arrives about the time Barney's questions start to dry up, and they use the break in conversation to move to the kitchen. 

Food is weird because Clint can eat, but he doesn't have to. He tries to just enjoy the experience without thinking about it too much. Pizza is for the good times. Nice moments tie to it so frequently for Clint. He wonders if it's a sign. 

When Clint asks about it again, Barney glazes over what's been happening with the shop and how he's kept the business running by saying that everything's the "same old, same old," then changes the subject by asking if he has any good stories from the circus. Clint's happy to volunteer them, though. It's nice to pretend that it was more fun memories than bad ones. 

So they eat dinner, and Clint tells him about his favorite people and things that happened, and they laugh and eat pizza and everything is wonderful. At one point, he actually gets Barney to laugh until he cries. When the pizza has all been eaten and Clint's reached the end of another story, Barney stands up and takes their plates to the sink. He watches his brother wash their mother's china and suddenly realizes how tired he always feels. Being back here with Barney is almost as life-giving as unsupervised range time. He wants to go to bed.   
Barney must be able to read it on his painted features (he was always good at that) because when he turns around he asks if Clint's ready to turn in. Clint nods and hops off his stool before following Barney back to their room. 

Getting ready for bed together is a calm, comforting end to an exciting day. Clint isn't ready to reveal Phil yet - mostly out of habit, but also because, again, he doesn't want to unload too much on his brother right away - so he waits until the light is out to put him up beside his head on the pillow. 

"G'night, squirt," Barney tells him across the dark. 

Clint smiles and calls back softly, "Goodnight, Barn." 

He lies on his side, facing the window, and listens to his brother's breathing at his back and Phil's near-inaudible snores on the pillow next to him. It's been so long since he's felt this calm and relaxed and happy; he wants to stay awake to just enjoy it. 

 

Clint doesn't actually think anything of it when Barney gets up in the middle of the night. He even guesses it might be part of "figuring something out," which is good.  
But Clint doesn't need sleep. And he wants to know what's going on. He knows that Barney wants to protect him, but Clint's gotten wise to a lot of things. And one of them is that it's better for him to have all the facts than it is to be sheltered. He nudges Phil awake and slips him into his pocket. 

Clint descends, following his brother's path, but watching his step, easily able to avoid creaky floorboards and stay light on his feet. 

"...So, what?" he hears Barney say. Clint assumes that Barney isn't talking to himself, and it makes sense that if he is, in fact, figuring something out that he'd have to make a phone call or two. 

He follows the sound of his brother's voice to his mom's back room. 

"Finders keepers, dude. ... Yeah, I'm sure ..."

He inches around the corner until he's in view of Barney standing in front of the desk, landline clutched tightly in his hand. 

Barney scoffs, "You're thirty minutes out. He got here by himself on a bus!" Clint leans back further into the shadows. Barney's silent as the other person talks, but his face clouds over. "What do you mean, 'circumstances have changed?'" he asks in an outraged whisper. He listens for a minute. "No, ... no. I want the same deal as before: one thousand," he says, keeping his voice low. It seems like he's waiting for a response and then Barney laughs falsely, "Nuh-uh, if anything he's  _increased_  in value. All the shit you've taught him ... Buddy, you gave him his own act, he's gotta be worth a fortune with the money he brings in."

Something drops in Clint's gut. Phil shifts in his pocket but Clint doesn't look away from where he's got his eyes locked onto his brother. 

"I'm about to leave town and I plan on taking him with me unless you can bring me the money by tomorrow morning. Yeah, that's right, bright and early. Same as last time."

Clint is quickly putting things together. And the picture it paints pulls the rug out from under his world. 

As if to mock his suspicions, Barney says into the phone, "This isn't a joke, pal-"

"Barn?" Clint interrupts, voice quivering and horrified as he steps forth.

His brother turns around, equal horror painted on his face and in his wide eyes, "Clint!"

"Barn, are you-? Did you-?"

"I- Clint, I can explain!" The phone falls to the desktop. 

"You  _sold_  me?"

Barney seems to flounder momentarily, then blurts out, "I- I didn't know how to take care of you! I still don't!" He takes a careful step forward but Clint takes a corresponding one back into the shadows. "You gotta understand - you were wasted here and I wanted you to make something of yourself. How the hell were you ever gonna -"

But Clint's been slowly shaking his head back and forth since Barney opened his mouth, "This is so fucked up."

Barney's face clouds over, "Yeah, I fucking know it's fucked up. But it's my fucked up way of taking care of you. Of making-"

Clint's porcelain joints click with how hard his head is shaking now, "I'm outta here." He turns and darts out of the room, down the hall and out the back door, scooping up his bow and quiver on the way. He hears Barney follow him, but only to the porch. Maybe he calls out Clint's name, too, but the wind is rushing in his ears. 

He flies down streets, around turns, along empty sidewalks because he's in fucking Bumfuck, Iowa and his family are all dead or asking for it. That's the thought that makes him stop and duck into an alley. As far as Midwestern alleyways go, it's pretty crappy. It's bad enough that there aren't even animals or other homeless people to fend off. And that's what he is now: homeless. 

He manages enough steps to get around the side of the dumpster before he collapses against and slides down the brick wall behind it. He brings his knees up and puts his head in his hands and contemplates everything he thought he knew - everything that's led him to this moment. 

"Clint?" comes a soft, muffled voice from his pocket. 

He takes a deep, useless breath

"Do you know what it's like-" he starts, staring blankly at a spot on the ground between his feet, "- to know you have a purpose but never be able to fulfill it? To go through life knowing it's meaningless?"

He was  _made_  to be Barney's companion. That's who he is. And even Barney, who's called him "brother" and fed him and smiled at him and who loved the mother that made Clint for him- even Barney doesn't want him. 

Phil climbs out of his pocket and down onto his kneecap. He gets up on his hind legs and says with confidence, "I think it just means that you have to find or make another meaning."

Clint closes his eyes and tilts backwards against the scummy brick wall with defeat. 

Phil doesn't even give him a moment before he asks, "Remember that second night? When you told me why Trickshot nicknamed you 'bird boy?'"

"Yeah," Clint croaks.

"That's not who you are," Phil says, and Clint wonders where he gets all this self-assurance from. "You aren't a bird because you're fragile; he called you a bird because you'd been caged and trained. But now you're free," he puts his paw on Clint's hand. "You're strong. You're resilient. You'll come back from this. The meaning of your life has been altered and that's okay. There's freedom in it, too. Now you're the one who gets to decide what your life means." Phil shrugs his little shoulders, "If anything, I'd say that puts you closer to becoming a real boy." Clint looks down at him. "Reality is entropy. You need to roll with the changes and do what you can." 

Clint sniffs, takes a deep breath, and thinks. 

"...Trickshot and the Swordsman won't just walk away from this. No matter what Barney tells them, they're just gonna think that he's lying to them and I'm still with him." He doesn't continue talking but Clint knows Phil can tell he's not just idling. Clint starts to tap his finger against his leg, "I can't go back to the circus, and I can't trust Barney enough to go with him. But I'm not gonna let Barney get hurt because of me." He refocuses his attention on Phil who's frowning. "I don't really want to go back to the shop in the morning. But I'll watch it. I can protect Barney from Trickshot long enough for him to get away." His free hand tightens its grip around his bow. 

 

 

So in the early, pale blue dawn, Clint stakes out the store from a nearby, taller building and lies in wait for his mentor. He sits and feels an edge of bitterness build as he thinks about how he didn't actually get to hear any news from the shop or what Barney's life has been like. He thought he had time and now it's been snatched away from him.   
Clint is glad it doesn't take long for Trickshot and the Swordsman to show up - they knew Barney was going to leave early and they've scheduled their goon-squad excursion accordingly. They come through the back alley to the service entrance, of course. Clint had counted on this, though. He nocks an arrow and takes aim, only needing a moment before letting it fly. He's already drawn another and aimed at Trickshot by the time the first one has embedded itself high in the Swordsman's shoulder. And before they can get to cover, Trickshot has one in his thigh. These are calculated injuries. The Swordsman can still support Trickshot on his uninjured side long enough to get them both to the hospital. And they may be shitty people, but Clint doesn't really want to damage them permanently or keep them from being able to do their jobs. He's mad enough at having to totally lose two arrows since it's not like he can go retrieve them; he isn't going to risk spending time being mad at himself over the deaths of two people if grief catches up to him. 

They duck out of sight and stay there for a few minutes. But Clint isn't called Hawkeye for nothing. He catches glimpses of them as they sneak along the edges of buildings away from the shop, towards the center of the city. He wonders if they'll even bother with the hospital, or if they'll try to ride the bus with two paleolithic weapons embedded in them and just have Mama Usmar treat them back at the circus. 

Even after they're gone, he stays to make sure that Barney gets out of the house safely. He watches the back door and wonders who will keep an eye on his mother's store or keep it from getting looted. Hopefully Barney thought of that. Clint has enough faith to think that maybe Barney's keeping it as a contingency plan and will also want to make sure it stays safe. 

It takes about an hour, but Clint stares at that back alley until his brother steps out, bags in hand. He doesn't look wary so maybe he'd seen what happened earlier. But he also doesn't look up and around like he's trying to catch sight of his defender. Barney takes a minute to lock up the door before hefting his bags up higher onto his shoulders. A car pulls up just as he gets to the bottom of the back steps, and he climbs in. Clint doesn't think about whether or not he's ever going to see him again. 

 

Despite Phil's pep-talk last night, Clint descends the fire escape of the building he'd staked out, and into misery. He makes way back to the alley he'd hidden in the night before, assuming that its truly disgusting state is an indication that he won't be bothered if he hides behind one side of the dumpster. He slides down into a slump against the wall.

This is it: he officially has nothing. He's got the clothes on his back, and his bow and nothing more to his name. 

 

Phil has stayed quiet in his pocket. 

Clint blows out a heavy breath and puts his head in his hands. He looks at the bow laying under the arch of his legs and he can see where he's scuffed it sometime last night or this morning. Straw, camel, back. He feels on the verge of crying again. He should be happy that he remembered to take it and that he didn't forget his quiver when he left Barney's, either. Instead, he's pouting over a scuff and the fact that he left his knapsack behind. He sucks in a frustrated breath. 

 

"We'll figure something out, Clint," Phil says reassuringly. His paws press into Clint's chest through the thin cloth of the inside of the pocket. It's like he's reading Clint's mind, and part of him wonders how long it would take for that to become a regular thing. Wait-

"So, you want to stay with me?"

He hears the brush of fabric as Phil nods his head and his ears catch against the lip of the pocket.

"Of course," he says, and Clint opens his eyes to peer down at him. 

When he laughs it sounds like sobbing.

"Clint?" the mouse asks him, and it's obvious that he's worried, but-

"I have nothing to offer you, man. I'm not even a real boy; what do you want with me?"

Phil smiles, "Well, that's why we're together isn't it? To make you a real boy?"  
And Clint's chest tightens the smallest bit; why does he ever bother getting his hopes up? But no - he's grateful for what he can get. And Phil is the best thing in his world, he desperately wants to hold onto as much of him as possible. 

"Remember what we talked about? Finding another meaning?" Phil says. 

"Yeah, but," Clint starts, caught at his most unsure, "I'm at the end of my rope here." He shakes his head, "Why can't the Red Fairy help more than once?" He scoffs, "Why'd she even bring me to life in the first place? What kind of living did she think I'd have with my child brother and abusive father?"

What sort of life is there for a boy who can crack? A boy whose scuffs don't heal, and who can't cry real tears, and who probably doesn't have a soul? He may as well be a ghost for all he matters. He can't even  _die_ , probably. What would happen if he shattered?

The questions make him queasy so he stops asking them of himself.   
He's not  _real_. There's no normal life for him. He can't get a driver's license, or a job, or buy a car, or rent an apartment.   
Shit. What kind of existence is this?   
How's he ever going to make anything of himself?

"How'm I ever going to make anything of myself?" he echoes aloud. "I can't do this on my own, Phil. I mean, I've got you, but living on the streets without someone who can really watch my back is kind of gonna pose a problem. Especially if someone finds me and gets ideas like Trick ..." Clint swallows emptily, "Maybe if I get good enough at being dangerous, people will stop trying to use me." He doesn't look at his friend but he feels the mouse shift. 

Phil puts a paw against Clint's chest, "The world will never stop trying to hurt you, Clint Barton."

Clint cringes and curls into himself.

"You're special beyond measure, and everyone you meet will wonder how they can keep you and use that to their advantage."

Clint sniffs, "Maybe-" his unfocused gaze lands back on Phil, "Maybe I don't have to make the world stop trying. Maybe I can get good enough at protecting and defending myself so that I can always keep the world away."

Without warning, a sourceless, red spotlight flickers on in front of him. Clint stares at the circle it makes on the ground and is only almost surprised when moments later, the Red Fairy fades into existence in the center of its glow. 

"I don't appreciate my efforts being wasted," she says. Clint blinks up at her, startled and unsure what exactly it is that's warranted her presence. Because it sure as hell can't just be because he  _asked_. Her expression is blank, as usual, but she stands close and stares down her nose at him. "Would you really continue your aims towards bravery, truth, and selflessness, if you had someone helping you protect the world from danger?"

Shit, she probably, definitely overheard his conversation with Phil just now. And twisted his words like a corkscrew. He just hopes that world-defending isn't a new stipulation of his transformation because he's not even sure how capable he's going to be of keeping himself safe. 

But just like always, the mere hint of her presence in his life restores Clint's amount of faith in himself and his goals.

"Um, uh, yeah, I guess. Yeah, yes, I would," he corrects at her visible skepticism of his uncertainty. She nods once, sharply.

"Phil," she calls out.

Phil climbs up onto Clint's shoulder so he's more in her view than from where he'd been peeking out of Clint's pocket. The Red Fairy doesn't bend down so much as she arches forward, extending her arm towards Clint. For as close as she'd felt before, the edge of her glittering, red gown doesn't brush Clint's feet and Clint knows he'll have to extend his own arm for Phil to be close enough to get to her, if she doesn't lean in any closer. So he reaches out, palm facing down, to make a better jumping-off point. He thinks of that picture he'd seen once, in a book, of God and Adam.  
Phil scampers down Clint's forearm until he can leap into the Red Fairy's waiting hand.  Her red hair sways back over her shoulder as she stands upright and brings her cupped palm just above chest-level. 

"Is this a role you're willing to take on?" she asks the mouse.

He doesn't hesitate at all; "Absolutely."

The Red Fairy nods in acknowledgment, then bends low to set him on the ground, away from both Clint and herself. 

"Stay still," she says, as she draws her wand from thin air and takes aim at him. With a short wave, a jet of red sparks streams out from it towards Phil. It engulfs him until his form is obscured and Clint watches, awestruck as the shape of the sparks grows larger and larger until the red becomes white and bursts apart. Left in it's wake, sitting on the ground, is a suited man who looks like he's never scampered in his life. The man turns first to Clint, then to the Red Fairy, then to Clint again before standing up and dusting himself off. 

"This form should lend itself well to you being able to watch Clint's back for him. Your role as his conscience, though, has just taken on a far more literal sense. Clint will be the only one who can see or hear you."

Phil sticks his hands in his pockets and shrugs, "Fine by me."

Clint looks up at the both of them, aware of what's happening, but struggling to process it. 

Phil's brows crowd together, "You okay?"

"Um," Clint shakes his head to come back to himself, "Yeah, I'm fine." He stands up. Clint wants to ask 'What now?' but he thinks that might be the wrong thing to say. 

"Protecting and defending yourself and others," the Red Fairy remarks, "is an admirable goal. With Phil's guidance I can easily foresee returning to grant your wish in the near future." Her shoulders are back and her head is held high and her words carry the air of both an imperative and a declaration. Clint wonders if this is what knights in fairy tales feel like when given a quest, and then instantly feels like an idiot for thinking anything of the sort. God, he's such a dumb kid. 

"Truth, bravery, and selflessness may not be as difficult to find as you might think," she says, cryptic as always. And then she disappears.  
Clint tries to find it reassuring. Mostly it makes him feel like a fuckup for not being able to achieve it already. She was here and gone so fast ... He stares at the cement that is no longer illuminated by the red spotlight. The lighting in the alleyway and the alley itself feels colder, without it. 

A pair of patent leather shoes step into Clint's line of sight, and he looks up. One of Phil's hands is still in his pocket, but the other, he's extended towards Clint. Clint reaches out to take it as he gets to his feet and Phil takes a polite step back to give him room. Clint takes a reciprocal one to give him a good look up and down. 

He gives a low whistle, "Look at you."

Phil's hand comes out of his pocket again and reaches up to rub at his chin and jaw, "I turn out okay?" he asks, like he doesn't really care about the answer. He probably doesn't.

"Well she sure didn't shortchange you." He cocks his head to the side and takes a step to the left. "It's not like you're gonna stand out in a crowd, but up close," Clint circles him but Phil keeps him in sight by looking back over his shoulder. "You're all Cary Grant and Clark Gable, man. You think I can get her to give me as good a deal? Maybe she takes requests."

"I have my doubts, but you can certainly try." And his voice may have changed, but that dry affectation to his tone is 100% still the same. He suits his new self so well. 

Clint rounds his front again and stands back, looking up at Phil, with his arms crossed over his chest. Phil lets him look until he's content and Clint's only content after he's sure he's memorized his friend's new visage. He nods to himself when he's done. 

"So," Phil starts, putting his hand back in his pocket. "Is there a next step you have in mind?"

"Um," Clint looks around the alley, realizing they have a mission but no plan. He looks up at Phil, "Can we just sit for a minute? I'm kind of freaking out." 

Phil nods, "Of course." He glances at the building wall behind Clint and gestures at a small stoop down the way. 

They probably squat there for too long, but Clint kind of gets lost in the way his senses tingle along the side of his body that Phil's sitting next to. He's also trying to figure out if there's more to the Red Fairy's game than she's expressed. She came to them in their time of need, but Clint thinks that might be the last they see of her unless he's successful in his mission. And the shitty thing is that Clint  _wants_  to be successful. He wants to become a real boy and do good in the world and chase bad people with Phil. Christ, why does he keep doing this to himself?

He takes a deep breath. 

"If you'd like," Phil starts, interrupting his dead-end line of thought, "I was thinking that we could go back to your mother's shop and get your knapsack. For starters." Phil looks down at him and Clint looks back. 

Clint sighs, "Okay." He stands up and starts walking. It takes Phil a moment to get to his feet, but his strides have him on pace with with Clint in seconds. 

The walk is short, and breaking in doesn't take long either, even though Clint goes slowly and carefully enough to make sure that the process won't be easy if someone else tries. He runs upstairs and grabs his bag, pointedly keeping his gaze fixed right in front of him. But when he comes back down, he finds Phil in the main part of the store with all its empty display shelves and its beautiful glass counter and antique, bronze cash register. Clint stares at a patch of light coming through the sparkling glass design on the front door. 

"We could stay here," Phil suggests. He keeps catching Clint off guard with how perceptive he is - how much he actually pays attention to Clint. But Clint looks around the shop's interior and shakes his head. He would wallow and stagnate here. He can do good if he's out in the world, at least. That's what the Red Fairy wants for him. So Clint secures the shop and rigs the lock so hopefully it won't be easy enough for the next person. They stand on the back porch looking out into the evening. 

"So, I guess we have an objective now," Clint says, crossing his arms. 

Phil nods but stares out across the street at nothing in particular.

"You wanna weigh in on that?" Clint asks.

Phil shrugs, "What's there to weigh in on? I'm going with you whatever you decide."

"Well, that's a given," Clint says in total opposition to what his insecurities are, and have been telling him. "I meant, like, what should we do about it? To start off."

Phil looks down the road where the sun's just starting to set, "Go looking for trouble, I suppose."


	2. Fate Is Kind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter covers our heroes wading into the crime world and the general progression of their relationship (and honestly, it can probably be skipped if you're not feelin' it)

 

 

It probably should be more difficult than it turns out to be in the end. But that first, dark space above a seedy bar that he crawls into proves to be the only introduction to the crime world he needs. Just like Phil had said, they go looking for trouble and it practically falls into their laps. They hop a bus north until they're running low on funds and then Clint squirrels himself away above the first place that looks like bad news. 

Clint thinks that the phrase "little pitchers have big ears" originated because adults just weren't attentive enough to realize there were children around when they spoke. Clint is proud of the way he makes his physical qualities into assets, and sometimes that means tucking himself away in dark spaces in order to eavesdrop. Clint always grins to himself when it involves sitting in literal eaves. 

Sitting in the rafters of that gross bar, he catches wind of a hit that's been set on someone for three months without anyone being able to take them out. Which, in Clint's opinion, is really dumb. Because finding the guy -  _Jerry the Bull_  (which Clint can't help but say derisively) - isn't even the hard part. He figures there must be a lot more going on in this town than he knows and accordingly makes a note to himself to get everything together so that he can make his way the fuck out of town at lightspeed, should the need arise. Phil plays the part of a second set of eyes and ears around town, and between them they figure out there's a sketchy grouping of neutral territories. As in full-body pat-downs and guns left at the door. It's all really intense and unexpected; Clint wonders if there isn't some Romeo and Juliet style bullshit going on somewhere around here. But he and Phil are pretty heavily invested already and these are kind of perfect conditions for him to get his foot in the door. So he's not planning on leaving or giving up anytime soon. When they've figured out the perimeter, Clint stakes out one of the more popular neutral zones and on the second day  _Jerry_  shows up. And keeps showing up. It's like he's enjoying the freedom and flaunting his presence ( _or_ , Clint supposes,  _more likely, flaunting the fact that he's still alive_ ). Clint's done his research on this scumbag - which he most definitely is - and he can safely say he's going to enjoy taking him out. He and Phil spend the day following the guy around and track him to his home. 

After that all it takes is a voice modulator, a few trips to the library, and some clever banking to set himself up with nearly off-the-grid, faceless identity. It's stupidly easy to find the contact number for the guy who's taken the hit out. He's some local drug-runner who thinks he's hot shit. The guys he overheard were incredibly talkative and the couple of times he's needed more information, he only had to go back to the bar they worked at and sit around listening for a couple of hours. Everything comes together pretty quickly. 

 

"I'm Hawkeye," he says into the voice modulator that he's attached to the mouthpiece of a payphone on the outskirts of town, "And you're going to pay me for the impossible hit you've got out on Jerry the Bull without me giving you credentials or meeting in person."

"How's that?" the voice on the other end of the line asks - not a real question, but an expression of surprise. 

Clint answers like he'd asked seriously; "Because I'm going to do the impossible and kill him with a bow and arrow."

Using the word "impossible" twice already means that the boss on the other end of the line won't bother using common forms of incredulity at the risk of sounding like an idiot. It's a power-move. Phil read out loud from a book on business negotiation while Clint committed cyber crimes. 

"...How will you collect the money without meeting in person?" is the drug-runner's halfhearted attempt at objection. Clint rolls his eyes and hopes for the man's sake that his slow reactions are just because he's been caught off guard. 

"I'll be sending an emissary after I make the kill," Clint tells him with his regular level of cocksureness. "As in, right after I make the kill. He'll bring the arrow that killed Jerry as proof and let you keep it if you cover the cost," he adds because catching this guy off guard is a diverting sort of fun.  

The money's a sure thing because Clint's done his research and guys like this one are all about honoring their word. He also figures that given this town's social climate, no one else is going to want to be held responsible for the damage done. Having a bow and arrows as his signature is just insurance. 

"See you in a few hours," he closes, all arrogance in a way he knows is making Phil roll his eyes.

The wait is short and the kill is quick. It's not even a struggle to get in and fetch the arrow. He sneaks his way across town glad for the newly pilfered, dark clothing that helps him blend into the shadows. He decides that wearing a long-sleeve shirt and gloves when he goes out is probably wise; it makes it easier for people to overlook the shiny hardness of his skin when there's less of it to see. But a kid carrying a blood-covered weapon is going to gain attention no matter what. So he carefully picks his way through alleys and side streets, with Phil at his side the whole way. 

They let him into the warehouse (which was also stupidly easy to find) way too readily, and Clint gets even more concerned for what sort of half-ass operation they're running here. Some flunky brings him to an office at the back where a greasy looking guy sits at a desk that screams 'overcompensation.'   
"I'm the mule," Clint says flippantly, without prompting. He holds out the bloody arrow and digs a business card out of his pocket and hands it over to the man. They were Phil's idea and a nice touch if the appraising look on the dark man's face is anything to go by. He frowns at Clint and then at the business card, but gestures to another flunky standing in the corner of the room. When he comes forward with a paper bag full of cash, Clint decides he has no complaints and exits with a half-sarcastic expression of pleasure at doing business and a little two-fingered salute, then gets the hell out of Dodge. 

And that's how things progress. He finds towns and tasks, and he works until the jobs dry up or until a town gets too hot and then he moves on. Sometimes he stops in a city big enough for him to stay safe and busy for months on end. It's a neat little cycle, and a pattern he's pretty glad to fall into.

 

 

He's 13 and Phil is there as he starts his seventh mercenary job, asking in a dull moment when his birthday is. Clint shrugs because there were only a handful of birthdays he got to celebrate at home since the circumstances weren't exactly optimal for that kind of thing. He doesn't want Phil to start making a big deal out of it. But the question makes Clint think back and pick the date out of his own history. And it allows him to start marking the years with a modicum of significance. 

Then, in two weeks, he's 14 and sitting in a hotel room, watching TV. There's a porno playing on one of the channels, but the novelty of watching it simply because he's not supposed to has long since been lost on him. That way of thinking fizzled out at some point while he was with the circus. He lingers on it today, though, because he's wondering if the faint buzzing under his skin is anything like whatever the actors are feeling. If he can experience arousal or any real emotion at all. But that's not what's important. What's important is that he's alone. He's alone because he and Phil had a fight and Phil walked out to go cool off and he doesn't even know it's Clint's birthday because Clint didn't want to tell him. Clint isn't worried. Phil told him explicitly that he was  _only_  going to cool off and that he'd be back in an hour. It was really good of him to do that, and Clint feels a little embarrassed at how transparent he must be for Phil to have noticed that he needed that sort of reassurance from him. Or maybe Phil's just really that good at communication. Clint should start stepping up his game.   
He's only recently begun to understand the phrase "crisis of conscience." Phil considers it his job  _as_ Clint's conscience to be involved in all the business decisions Clint makes; about his targets and which jobs he does and doesn't accept. And maybe in the time since Phil walked out the door, Clint's been considering that his own arguments against it hadn't been fair, and that Phil deserves to have a say in these decisions because, really, they're business partners. It's not about Phil telling him what to do or just bailing on missions he doesn't agree with. They pretty much end up doing everything together, no matter what. So it isn't fair of Clint to assume otherwise. What's really got him, though, is that arguing with Phil finally has some weight to it. It starts to feel less like banter and more like imperative advice. Clint doesn't always like the way it sits with him. He wants to revert to their initial, easy friendship; what they had back when decisions weren't so hard to make. 

 

He's 15 and 16 and hungry for kisses; affection that's more than platonic. Their lives are lonely. Phil is Clint's whole world but sometimes he wants more. And he definitely knows that Phil deserves more. More than just a smartass kid fighting his way through the world, for companionship. Phil deserves a fairytale ending with friends and a family and a reality where he can be seen and heard by other people who can appreciate him. At least he knows Phil loves doing good in the world and that that's how he sees helping Clint work through the criminal underworld; as doing good. 

Clint's reputation builds, and he starts learning to network and use old clients as references. And Clint finds ways to make friends: first online whenever he can make it to the library, and then when he's brave enough, with the people he meets on the job. 

Phil still warns him about doing stuff like that: hanging out with underworld inhabitants beyond completing missions. Clint still finds it a little annoying even though he's aware that it's for his own good. But it's been much easier to deal with - their working relationship has been much better on the whole since that first big fight where Phil had actually had to walk out. Clint still thinks about that fight sometimes when things get tense between them. Phil had come back on time, just shy of having been out for an hour, actually, and Clint had managed to ready himself for a real, grown-up discussion. They'd sorted themselves out until they'd felt that Phil would be able to do his job and Clint would be able to have his say and that they'd both show each other respect through it all. 

With that initial communication barrier crossed, Phil and Clint stop arguing and instead, they debate. Patterns are established even as boundaries get tested, and with the aid of both, trust is built. Making decisions is easy, with Phil helping out. And it's progressively getting to the point where Clint can make the right ones without Phil's help at all. But as the months go by, that's what worries him. It's all become so easy. Being good isn't that hard when he's got a fallback plan and a personified moral compass. So why hasn't the Red Fairy reappeared?

He's 17 and contemplating seriously what love is, exactly. What love could mean for  _him_. He doesn't ask questions of anyone, because he thinks this might be something he has to figure out on his own. But he does keep coming back to the same handful of thoughts; how is he supposed to find the kind of love he's looking for when he is the way he is? When he looks all of eight years old but is quickly reaching the mental and emotional maturity of a young adult?

He wonders (not for the first time, but a lot that year) if the Red Fairy's spell isn't an outright curse. If this state of existence is permanent limbo with the means of escaping it close enough to taste but in reality, completely out of his reach. There's another, smaller but persistent part of him that argues this emotional hunger is proof that he is in fact going to overcome the curse. That it wouldn't be necessary for him to have such preparation if he weren't going to need it later on to form real, human relationships once he, too, is a real human. There are other explanations, but it's all difficult to think about, because Clint really wants it to be that one. 

And throughout it all, Phil is there. Emotional support even when Clint won't say what's wrong. Ever faithful that if they just continue to do good, they'll reap the benefits and claim fulfillment on the Red Fairy's promise. 

He's 18 and he's made friends and a name for himself. Clint continues to be surprised when his hopes don't outshine reality - when running around taking out bad guys with the help of his conscience turns out to be just as thrilling as it had sounded from the first. That is, when they aren't on downtime.  

In the sketchy hotels where they take up residence, people try not to notice too much unless they're looking out for trouble. And a little boy in overalls doesn't look like trouble, especially when he can pay enough to buy silence. Or should it be  _except_ when he can pay enough to buy silence? It doesn't matter. He stays quiet and other people stay quiet and Clint does his job unnoticed. 

So he finally establishes a good routine - or as much of one as he can manage without putting himself at risk. And maybe, in the midst of that routine, Clint starts to figure some things out. Number one is that no matter what the Red Fairy may believe or have said, this job does not make Clint feel good. He likes doing the parts of it that he's good at - archery, conning people, picking his missions. But dealing with seedy people? Killing them? Constantly hiding in the shadows? It isn't all that great. 

Phil's probably the best part of this whole thing; a part that consistently continues to get better. As the years have passed, Clint has gone from making rash decisions, to relying wholly on Phil's guidance, to taking what he's learned from experience and tentatively acting on it. Questions during planning become suggestions; seconds of hesitation are shaved off of op times; Clint begins to notice that he's actually growing in character. And once they're over the initial communication bump of getting Clint to listen to Phil, their relationship starts growing, too. Beyond the increased trust, their friendship feels easier and more important. 

And yet there's still no sign of the Red Fairy. 

He tries not to let it bother him. He even tries upping his game, and discovers that altruism comes to him way more naturally than he would have thought. He jokes that it's because he has a lot of free time and a lot of guilt. Phil never comments on it. But privately, beyond the guilt, it feels really good. Homeless shelters are always taking donations and if he sees someone in need he can always pop into a store to buy protein bars and a blanket because it's not like he's spending the money on anything other than motel fees and basic mission supplies. It helps that his weapon of choice is reusable. But that's not the point; the point is that he's doing good shit so much that it becomes second nature and he doesn't do it anymore  _because_  it's good shit but because he likes doing it. 

 

And then Clint is 19, and he's decided that the Red Fairy isn't coming back for them. It takes a few days of waffling, and there's an element of disappointment, of course but he's surprisingly okay with it. He doesn't deter Phil's periodic encouragement or unwavering faith in her; it's nice to hear and it's a measure of normality. After all, Clint has faith in Phil. Clint's always had faith in Phil, though. The difference now, is a degree of selfishness. 

His loss of faith was pretty perfectly timed, all things considered. Most of his habits persist, but now that he isn't fretting over being selfless 24/7, he finds himself wanting things. Particularly - distressingly -, he finds himself wanting Phil. In ways that he hasn't before. Very specific, amorous ways. 

It's a pretty simple thing, in principle. The most disconcerting part is how normal everything remains. How he acts around Phil is the same as it's always been, there are just new emotions that creep up on him as they go about their days. Innocuous moments have him brimming with affection; Phil's existence brings him joy. 

But the wanting includes the desire to keep him. And the yearning is new.  _Yearning_ , meant in the most depraved, romantic sense of word, of course. Clint wants more than what they already have - even if he knows it's (A) ridiculous to ask, and (B) totally unsuited to the situation that either of them are in. The wanting persists, nonetheless; the selfish, selfish wanting that has him greedily soaking up every happenstance that binds the two of them closer together. 

He doesn't feel too terrible about it, because if the Red Fairy isn't coming back at all, then it's not like Phil's going to get a chance at becoming real either. Clint doesn't think it's fair, though. Phil shouldn't have to be stuck with him, but Clint is also terribly grateful. He's begun to relax - to settle into himself and the life that he and Phil have built - without the anticipation of the Red Fairy's return hanging over his head. He lives dangerously, but he's begun to think that this life is maybe something that he gets to keep. That  _Phil_  is something he gets to keep. And what a joke that is: Clint considering himself lucky every day that he gets to wake up to the familiar sight of Phil's unchanging face, and it's only because of a curse binding them together. 

More than once, Clint has considered having the conversation with Phil about the Red Fairy not coming back. But he can't imagine Phil agreeing with him, and his only goal in such a conversation would be to give Phil the freedom to leave him. So no one would really end up a winner in any outcome. 

Phil is no longer Clint's only friend in the world, but the amount of time they spend together, protecting and caring for one another seems to become more and more meaningful, even when it gets to the point that it could probably be defined as a rut. Clint can't think of anything that would change their routines drastically at this point, and really, that's so reassuring. He wonders sometimes if he'll ever quit this mission of doing good in the world, despite the loss of his original purpose for taking it on. It's not like there's anything else for him to do. For that matter, it's not like there's anything else that Phil would do if he were to be freed from the stipulation of their extended mission, even if he weren't bound to Clint, and able to do whatever he'd like. But that's a little painful for Clint to dwell on. 

The satisfaction he's able to extract from most of his days provides a kind of contentment that's distracting in its normalcy. For that, Clint is grateful. Missions come and go and blow up in his face but they keep happening, and he keeps getting to do good in the world with the best person he knows. Laying low has its perks, too. It's shitty daytime television and sitting in libraries or walking around parks and taking advantage of whatever free shit the town they're in provides for the public. But every bit of it is spent with Phil, and Clint craves each moment of undivided attention that he can get. 

 

All in all, it's a pretty great way to progress into his adulthood. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should have chapter 3 up by tomorrow. Thanks for the support so far, everybody :)


	3. I'd Cut My Strings For You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aaaand done!  
> Thanks for reading, you guys!

 

 

Clint hates climbing the second set of stairs at this motel. They're ugly and cramped and even though they're open-air, they smell like sulfur and shit. The rooms are nice though, and when he's not coming back from a stakeout, that alone makes up for the staircase. But this is day nine of a very long, long-con. The con being that Clint has just wasted a week and two days stalking a clueless middleman whose death will not solve anything and in fact, might actually hurt a few people. He hates when the people he takes contracts from don't do their research. It's why he does his own beyond what they give him. Clint's been trying to figure out what the next step should be the whole way home. The lock clicks heavily on the front door as he unlatches it and he's sure to engage it again once he's across the threshold. He makes his way across the narrow channel of the common room to the third door on the left. They lucked out in this town; the motel is nice enough to have two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a living room. It's cramped but it was pretty clean and the separate rooms are really nice to have. Almost like a real house.

He goes in and slings his bow and quiver off of his back and onto the bed. As he's reaching for his shirt to change out of his messy clothes, his senses prickle sharply. Scared that someone's managed to get in without him realizing immediately, his arm flies out to retrieve his bow as he whips around to face whoever's behind him, only to stop halfway through the motion - leaving him posed like a discus thrower.

 

If the red glow filling the room weren't enough, the wings and un-aged appearance of her face make it easy for Clint to recognize the Red Fairy. 

For a moment, he only gapes. 

After so many years, he'd actually, totally given up hope of becoming real. The voice of doubt had been with him so long, and the empty years without any sign from her only reinforced his assumptions. The doubts that have built up over time flit through his awareness: how he'd continued working as an assassin not because it was good, but because it was what he knew and he wanted to keep up appearances for Phil; how even though Phil insisted otherwise, he kind of figured that the assassin part had something to do with the still-a-puppet thing; how he hasn't been doing any of this with any real goal in a hell of a long time and how much that counts against him. The sudden concern that maybe she hadn't forgotten him and that now she's here to punish him hits him just before the absurd worry that maybe she can read thoughts and is judging him.  

He becomes aware of himself and straightens up, turning to face her head-on.   
"What are you doing, here?" he asks, edging back towards the door because instinct demands he have the best vantage point possible. 

"I'm here to make you real," she answers, and he stops in his tracks - halfway between the bed and the door and across the width of the room from her. 

"What?" he manages stupidly, expression gaping like she's punched him out of the blue. He's startled beyond belief, which is how he excuses himself when she moves towards him and he blindly steps backwards to keep away from her, only to fall right on his ass. He stares up into her face as she slowly closes in on him. He scoots back so that his shoulders press into the wall. 

"You've fulfilled the stipulations; it's time for me to enact the wish."

"No! No way, I- there's- I haven't done, I haven't fulfilled  _any_  stipulations," he tells her, panicked. 

The Red Fairy inclines her head and her expression hardly changes but there's a question in her eyes, he thinks. 

He clears his throat and tries to pull himself together, "I mean- Look, I'm not brave. I mean, my job is killing people from a distance - from the shadows," he emphasizes the 'killing' part in the hopes that it will shake her out of whatever delusion she's operating under. But she doesn't say anything so he keeps going, "Plus, I'm definitely still selfish." He doesn't elaborate on why but he swallows when she still watches him blankly. "And on days that I talk to someone other than Phil you can pretty much guarantee that I'm lying on an hourly basis. So..." he drifts off and hopes the Red Fairy will just go ahead and take her leave. 

She assess him in silence for way longer than Clint is comfortable with. Her mouth fixes itself into a firm line of assuredness. 

"Truth comes in many forms," she says cryptically. "And as for your bravery and selflessness, well the orphans you feed, and the danger you put yourself in to protect others and eradicate the evil in the world speaks volumes. Even if there are things which you want to keep for yourself," she adds knowingly. Clint's heart drops at the thought that his feelings are that obvious. He must look unconvinced, though. 

"Do you really believe that a sniper's job is not brave?" she asks him with reproach. 

"No," Clint says stubbornly, "but that doesn't mean that  _I_  am."

She goes on like he hasn't said anything; "Just because you don't need food or personal items doesn't mean you're obligated to give away the earnings you might be spending on it. You could very well use them to buy yourself better accommodations. Instead, you donate to people who need it. That's rather selfless."

"Just-" he starts. 

"And in case it wasn't clear, I was referring to your truth being the justice you serve on the world and the moral code you live by. Your record - your decision about the target you've been tailing this week, even - proves that your heart is good and true."

Clint's biting his tongue and finds himself blinking hard even though there's no water building up in his eyes, because it  _can't_ , and still he's trying not to cry. 

"You are worthy, and you've proven yourself be-"

He interrupts her by choking out a whispered, "You don't understand-" his voice breaks. "If I become a real boy, he leaves me." He searches her face, desperate for sympathy, but she's unreadable. "He's all I have in the world. I can't- I won't make it without him." The way she looks at him just provokes more begging and excuses on his part. "I can't ask Phil to stay with me." Clint feels like he's only arguing with himself, "He deserves his freedom. Can't you give my wish to him instead? Can't you make him a real person?"  _He'd still have to stay with me that way_ , Clint logics.  _Phil would get something good but I wouldn't be a real boy so he'd stay with me_. 

"No, Clint," she tells him, almost fondly. There's something on her face that might be a wan smile. He can feel the terrible, sad, tightness that builds up when he does his false-boy imitation of crying. She starts to gently bend down towards him. Coward that he is, he shuts his eyes tight and doesn't watch her, but he feels it the moment she presses her pink lips to his forehead. The magic breaks out, tingling over his face and all the way down his body through new skin and bones and muscle. And his body expands, quickly forming into whatever size someone as old as him is probably supposed to be.

Her goodbye is a gentle pass of her hand over his scalp, through his hair ( _real hair, growing out of his head_ ) and his nerves light up. He suppresses his sobs until the light that she always emanates fades from the room, and he can't see it through his eyelids anymore. They startle themselves out of them - sharp in the otherwise empty space. Hearing his own breathing in this disjointed way - through the broken eardrum that must have manifested from his cracked head - is what really takes it out of him, and he lets go. He only cries harder when he feels hot wet streaks break from the inner corners of his eyes and down his face. His chest heaves and he buries his head against his knees, with his arms wrapped protectively over and around him.

Breathing is weird. The expansion of muscle is weird. The way his jaw clenches as he tries to keep himself quiet is weird. And this new existence just makes him want to cry harder. For long, long minutes, he sits like this with his emotions pouring out of his face in such new and strange ways. 

A few knocks register against the door, "Clint?" Phil calls out. 

Clint squeezes his eyes shut and bites his weirdly-flesh lip to keep the noises in. He didn't think Phil would be back so soon. This is where everything changes, and he isn't ready. It takes too long to contain himself and Phil knocks again. 

"Clint?" there's an edge of concern this time. 

He looks up at the ceiling to try and drain the tears back, "Come in," he calls out.

Phil's brow is tight when he opens the door, and he scans the emptiness of the room before his eyes land on where Clint's tucked up against the wall. His face brightens incredibly. "Look at you," he says, voice awed, as he paces forward and kneels down in front of Clint.

"The Red Fairy was here," he says as if it weren't obvious. He wonders if Phil can tell he's been crying. "I'm a real boy, now," he adds and it only makes him sound more childish.

"That's wonderful," Phil says with a smile, "I'm just sorry I missed it."

Clint bursts back into tears. 

He falls over his knees again but Phil's immediately there to catch him, reaching out with a grounding grip to Clint's forearms, and hovering in his bubble. All the fears that'd hit him when he'd first realized what Barney had done come back ten fold, because now it's going to be infinitely harder to get by in the shadows (and that's all he knows how to  _do_ ). Now there won't be anyone playing backup, anymore, either. 

Clint puts a hand out to push some distance between their bodies, but Phil keeps the grip on his elbow and uses the motion to draw Clint closer until they're pressed nearly chest to chest - Phil on his knees between Clint's splayed, drawn up legs. "Hey, now," he murmurs. His arms wrap all the way around Clint's back and Clint feels strangled, even as he folds himself into the embrace and presses his his head against the curve of Phil's neck.

_This is it_ , Clint thinks.  _My final moments with him and I'm bawling like a baby_. Phil shushes him again, like he can tell what's going through Clint's mind. They fit together so nicely like this. Clint heaves a breath and tries to get a hold of himself. The Red Fairy was wrong; he isn't brave. Part of him wants to be strong enough to let Phil leave him - to let go of this man and face the world on his own. But a larger part of him - a  _selfish_  part of him - wants very much to cling to Phil and never let go. He looks up and meets Phil's eyes, and knows he can't lie to him. There's a knot between Phil's eyebrows that forms in the moments it takes Clint to compose himself. He hates the way it feels and sounds as he takes those shuddering, gaspy little breaths that come at the end of a good, long cry. 

"I'm a real boy," he sniffs. "You can go now - you don't have to stay with me. He looks down at himself, "How old do you think I am?"

"What?" Phil asks. Clint can tell how confused he sounds, but doesn't look up to confirm it. "Twen-twenty? Twenty-one, maybe. Why do you think I'm going to leave? No- what's- why are you crying? What has you so upset?" a soothing hand rubs wide circles over Clint's new, well-muscled shoulders. Clint shivers and chokes on a breath. He curls tighter in on himself but doesn't totally hide his face.

"It's fine. I'm fine." He sniffs heavily, "We can, uh- we should probably ...  _shit_ ," he chokes, "I don't know what to do. I'm human and I don't know what to do."

"That's okay," Phil coos at him, "That's alright. All things considered; it's a pretty good reason to cry. Your whole existence has just been altered. Rather unexpectedly, I'm guessing," and Clint can hear the question beneath the reassurance. 

"Fuck yeah, unexpectedly," he laughs wetly. "How was I supposed to know that me making my way through the scummy underbelly of the world was going to tick off her magic little list?"

"You didn't see this coming?" Phil asks, and again,  _no_ , he definitely did not. He meets Phil's eyes, and knows how his face must be pinched in confusion. They're close enough that his head is tilted practically all the way back, and his hair is falling into his eyes from being mussed. Phil brushes it back so gently that it's all Clint can do not to lean into the touch. 

"Can you not see how much you've grown? That what you do is good? Clint - you're  _amazing_ ," and Clint aches at that, a bit, "You're a better human being than probably anyone else." 

_Anyone else_ , full stop. Clint shuts his eyes and shakes his head a little. 

"You deserve this," Phil says, and God, it sounds like he actually believes it. Maybe he does. Maybe Clint shouldn't be surprised about it; it has, after all, been theoretically what he's trying to achieve this whole time. And it makes sense that he'd be happy. If it were anything else, Clint could almost guarantee he'd be relieved and crowing about finally putting to rest something he'd been pursuing for so long, too. 

"But I don't want it," Clint whispers, and shame colors his face with a heavy blush. 

"You don't -" Phil cuts himself off and draws back. Clint aches softly at the loss of closeness. It feels like he's put an end to whatever that moment was; the last moment of having Phil so intimate because now that he's as whole as he's going to get, this can't last much longer. 

"I don't understand," Phil's watching his face but Clint can't meet his eye. "I thought this was what we've been working towards. I thought this was what you wanted."

To his own mortification, Clint hears himself confess hoarsely, " _You're_  all I want."

"What?" This might be the first time he's heard actual, open bewilderment from his conscience, ever. Clint actually whimpers as Phil separates himself even further and leaves their only point of contact at his hands on Clint's elbows. Clint shuts his eyes so he doesn't have to see Phil's face as he ruins this; condemns them both to a fate of separation. 

"I-I feel bad about being ungrateful - and that I made you waste your time with me. I swear, I do." His breath hitches twice on the inhale, "I honestly didn't think I'd ever earn my wish. Ever. Which I guess makes this worse because that means I knew you'd be stuck with me forever and I was going to let you stay until you gave up, even though I don't think I could ever see you doing because you don't give up.  It's pretty shitty of me, I know. So, I'm sorry, but I don't regret it. None of it. Because I've loved every minute with you. These have been the best years of my life." He lets his voice get soft at the end, and finally musters the courage to look up at Phil. He hopes his expression conveys his sincerity.

Phil looks positively gutted.

Clint knew what was coming but it still hurts to see the evidence, and his stomach drops.   
He tries to scoot away, but Phil's hands stay firm against his elbows. Clint doesn't look away.   

"I- " Phil flounders, "I had no idea ..." he croaks out. "How long-?" he sounds like he cuts himself off, but Clint knows what he's asking. 

Clint keeps his face uplifted, but closes his eyes, "So long.  _Years_."

He opens them again, because it doesn't feel right to keep looking away. 

"You don't know-?"

"Since Barney," he interrupts, and his voice cracks. "Since the day- the last time I saw Barney. After coming down from that roof and the Red Fairy showing up and just sitting with you. Since the first day you were human. I think." He swallows heavily.  

Phil gapes at him. 

Clint doesn't mean for it to come out as a whisper when he says, "It's okay though," -  _shit_ , he's trying to be reassuring - "You don't- I don't expect anything from you. I've kept it to myself this long, I promise- ... I mean, I guess it doesn't matter now if I can keep it to myself or not. Since you're leaving. I didn't even mean to tell you, it just slipped out. Fuck, it probably would have been better if I could've just kept my damn mouth shut. I didn't mean to ruin your goodbye like this. I know you care about me, I shouldn't have said anything, now it'll ruin any mem-" the word breaks in his throat and he starts crying again. God, he's having a full blown meltdown. He bites his lip to try and contain himself. 

"Hey, hey," Phil murmurs reassuringly. His thumbs make lazy circles on Clint's arms. "What makes you think I'm leaving?"

"You were only staying until I became real," Clint's voice is shaky and wet and a little strained. 

"I think the circumstances have changed a bit since we met."

"But, I mean... I didn't want to become real, because you were only going to stay until I became real," Clint argues as if his reasoning is the only way of thinking about this. "I- What other reason is there for you  to stay?" 

Phil's eyebrows crowd together again. One of his hands comes up to knuckle at Clint's chin and a warm thumb swipes at his jaw. "You. I'll stay as long as you'll let me."   
He says it as if Clint keeping Phil around is a burden. 

"And for the record, even if we'd never been able to get you here," he squeezes Clint's now-flesh arm, "my time with you wouldn't have been a waste."

Clint stares at him for a moment. "Fuck- I mean, I-I guess that means I should go back to making you that promise. About the- keeping things to myself. Yeah." He adds the last part when Phil once more seems confused by what Clint's saying. Shit, he's a simple guy - he's trying to put things as simply as possible.  

"What things are you talking about?"

"I just- I mean- All the stuff about not expecting anything from you. I know that just because I'm in love with you, it doesn't really mean anything. To you. Which-" his breathing catches, "Which is fine. Non-reciprocity or whatever. I can deal." Clint sniffs and squirms a little as he rambles, but Phil's grip on his chin and elbow stays steady. Clint manages to keep eye contact. 

"You don't think I love you?" Phil asks, voice low and expression bewildered.

"No, no. I know you love me. But that's the I-care-about-you kind of love. Not the heart-burning-with-the-heat-of-a-thousand-suns kind of love. Not the roses-and-chocolates and sex-on-silk-sheets kind of love." 

A blush blooms on Phil's cheeks and goddamn if it doesn't look absolutely breathtaking. 

"What makes you think I don't feel that way? That I don't want any of those things with you?" He's quiet, but neither of them have dropped eye contact. Clint shrinks into himself.

"You deserve so much more," he says back just as quietly.

Phil crowds in the tiniest bit closer, "Would you let me be the judge of that?"

Clint swallows around his heavy tongue and stays curled in on himself. 

"Clint, you're all I want, too. I honestly don't know how you haven't realized it. How haven't you noticed?" Phil's eyes roam over Clint's face, "You're the person I admire most, and I'm sorry if I haven't made that clearer to you. You deserve to know things like that. They aren't said to you often enough." His teeth click together like he's just thought through what he's said, "I suppose that's my fault, though. There are lots of things I think about telling you, but don't. It's- ..." he falters, "it's hard to keep boundaries and say even some of the things I think and feel about you without feeling like I'm overstepping."

Clint's internal monologue is nattering at him about how there's a lack of evidence to support those statements, and there aren't enough offhand instances for Phil to even mention  _one_  in this declaration, but he  _really_  wants to hear and believe the things Phil's saying. 

"I don't know how much it's worth, and it certainly isn't healthy, but ... you're my everything. I don't know who I'd be without you." Clint looks down at the floorboards as Phil speaks. He can see through the space between them. "I love you for so much more than that, though," Phil continues, "All I want is to have you in my life. All I want is to have you close and protect you and be with you. I'll take it whatever way I can have it, but if you want more ... then that's the best news I've heard in a long time."

"Yes, please," Clint hears himself say softly, tightening his grip in Phil's shirt. There's a breathless moment of stillness between them. Slack in a safe sense of opportunity. And then- the world narrows to catch up with them. The two of them ensnared, as Phil leans in and Clint responds. They shift together, creating shadows across each others faces. Heavy-lidded eyes focus on long-admired mouths. Clint's fist tightens again in the top of Phil's shirt. 

"Don't do this out of pity," he whispers in the space between them.

"I love you," Phil whispers back as he closes the distance.

For a moment, there's just an impression; like a feather brushing over smooth skin. Then, even as nothing changes in their posture or intent, warm perception becomes hot pressure. The kiss turns into something beyond sensation; texture and a pulse and life. Phil's  _alive_. His breath sweet and his arms strong and with a new dimension to them where they're wrapped around Clint's torso. 

His gasp is only just louder than Clint's, then he leans back, eyes wide.

"I'm real," he tells Clint, awed, before looking down at his hands and putting reassuring touches against his own chest and face. 

Clint looks around the room, trying to catch a glimpse of the Red Fairy; sure that he would have noticed sooner if she'd been in the room, and that this is her doing. 

"How?"

There's a moment of thought before Phil's face lights up like he's had a really good idea, and he opens his mouth to speak, but snaps it shut twice as quickly and a harsh blush surfaces over his face. 

Clint reaches up to trace over it lightly as he asks, "What?"

"Firstly, I'd like to point out that an actual fairy has been involved in our lives for many years. So I think that buys me some leeway with my theory."

"Which is...?"

"The kiss, just now, seems like it might have possessed the same properties as, ah, True Love's Kiss."

Clint's mouth parts in shock, but then he's laughing in quiet delight and tugging Phil in by the collar of his shirt for another kiss. He makes this one deep and sultry and Phil is quick to get with the program. It has all the skill of two people who've never kissed or been kissed before but it's fun and it's new and it's  _Phil_. Clint breaks the kiss when he's smiling too much to keep going and laughs at himself -  _themselves_.

"True Love's Kiss," he murmurs.

"Well that's the best I've currently got-" Phil starts to excuse.

"No, no - I like it," Clint assures him, "It makes sense. I'm just ... enjoying the way it sounds." He beams, but buries his face against Phil's neck. "You love me," he murmurs. 

"Yes," Phil assures him, and Clint can hear the smile in his voice, "I love you very much."

"You're  _in love_  with me," Clint tacks on, pressing small kisses low on Phil's neck. He nuzzles against Phil, pulling him closer, sure that he's ruining the man's collar but not much caring about it. Phil shivers and nods as he leans in to nudge at Clint's face, mouth searching for Clint's. Clint slings one arm up and around so that it crooks at the back of Phil's neck and he leans back, arching into the kiss with Phil mostly supporting him. It feels dramatic and romantic and his new eyelids flutter a little when Phil tightens his grip around his torso. Clint doesn't know how Phil manages to hold him so closely - firm but careful, like he's still afraid Clint might break. Phil's still kissing him like he's trying to steal the air from his lungs. And it all feels so goddamn sweet that Clint could cry again. They break for air and go back to less oxygen-demanding forms of necking. 

"You're very good at this," Phil mumbles, low and throaty, against the bolt of Clint's jaw. 

Clint's laugh is still a little watery when he says, "Everything I know I learned from those romance novels." 

Phil's head falls forward onto Clint's shoulder and he groans, but his shoulders shake minutely in a way that Clint is sure means he's laughing. 

When he's done, he shifts up to buss Clint's temple, then draws back, cupping a hand to his cheek, "You're the best thing that ever happened to me."

"Same," Clint responds, pursing his lips until Phil draws him into another kiss and he has to relax his mouth to reciprocate. Clint lets him have a moment but then leans back against the wall.

"We should probably rethink our whole dynamic, now." At that Phil looks concerned. "... Like, I'm gonna have a heat signature," Clint continues, "and fingerprints, and need food. We both are." When Phil's expression remains tight, Clint keeps babbling. "Not to mention that people can actually see you now. Do you think the government's been tracking us? Will being human make it easier for the government to track us? Also, sickness. That's gonna be an issue. And we should probably start caring about the state of the places we live in. Because of the sickness thing. Yeah ..." He's not too worried about any of this, but it bears mentioning, and he wanted to make sure he wasn't the only one thinking about it. 

Phil's thumb sweeps along the line of Clint's jaw, "Did you want to discuss that right now?"

Clint's eyes drop to Phil's mouth and he shakes his head. Phil's grin is louder than his laugh might've been and it's just as beautiful to Clint. He gives himself over to reaching out for another kiss. 

Their jaws work gently together. Clint keeps thinking they've got it figured out but then the kiss will break or teeth will catch too much skin and they'll have to work it out. It's amazing. 

Phil still has a guiding hand on his chin, but the other is winding its way slowly around Clint's ribs. Clint can feel them - even through his shirt - fitting their way between and over the bones. Clint lets his hands drift to Phil's shoulders and squeezes, trying to press himself even closer. He rocks forward and releases the most depraved noise when his crotch makes contact with one of Phil's knees. He curls over himself and gasps, unaware of how tightly he's clutching the round knobs of Phil's shoulders. Phil ducks his head to try and get a look at him.

"Clint? Are you alright?"

"Oh, shit," Clint pants out right before surging upwards to press their mouths together. He succeeds, but only at the cost of reengaging contact between his crotch and Phil's knee. He breaks off the kiss with another groan. 

"Phil, oh my God."

"Clint?" Phil pushes him away enough to get a good look at him. 

"Can we please move to the bed?" he looks up at Phil with wide eyes, but Phil's staring at his mouth. Clint wets his lips and that's enough to shake Phil's attention and have him nodding. 

He rises gracefully, with an arm outstretched for Clint to take hold of. Clint takes it but still wobbles like a newborn foal when he's all the way upright. He has to brace himself with Phil's arms as he adjusts to the new altitude. He's never been this high up before just standing on the ground. It's much different than being at the edge of a tall building; this actually makes him dizzy. 

"You alright?" Phil asks. 

"Fine," he says, staring at his feet, "Just need a sec." He sucks in a steadying breath and when the image on his retinas stop dancing and merge, he raises his head and comes nose to nose with Phil. Eye to eye, as well, almost, and this kind of perspective is amazing. 

"Hi," he whispers because they're  _that_  close - anything else would be too much. 

"Hi," Phil whispers back, and Clint gets to watch in HD at close-range as a smile blooms in the corners of his eyes and mouth. He reaches a finger up to trace the lines. Phil shifts to cup his elbows and keep him braced. Clint uses the moment to lean forward and press himself along his front. He slips his arms up over Phil's shoulders.

"Are we still moving to the bed?"

"Well, now that you've draped yourself against me, I'm a little less motivated."

Clint whines and rocks away just enough to fling himself backwards onto the mattress. He lands off center and with his legs dangling off the end, bouncing twice before he settles. The side-view he gets of an unimpressed Phil eyeing him is tantalizing. He knows they were just making out seconds ago, but Phil's standing there in his suit looking composed and devastating, and possibly admiring the view he has of Clint spread out on the bed. Clint lets his legs fall further apart, just in case. He can't tell if it does the trick or not because Phil doesn't react right away. He does, after a moment, shuck his jacket and toss it, without looking, over onto the suitcase Clint's left on the floor to one side of the bed. He unfastens his cuffs and starts to roll up his sleeves as he approaches the end of the bed. He squats to get down on his knees one at a time, putting his hands on Clint's kneecaps. He pulls off Clint's shoes with careful movements. The longer the heated silence builds, the more worked up Clint gets. He swallows hard, "Penny for your thoughts?"

Phil pushes his hands up Clint's thighs, "I should hope they'd be obvious." He surprises Clint when Phil's hands lock onto his hips and he's dragged down the bed enough to have his knees bent and feet flat on the ground. Phil links his fingers around the leather of Clint's belt closest to the buckle. 

"Tell me anyways," Clint says. His fingers don't twitch against the mattress because his hands are one of the few things he's always able to control and it looks like that extends to his new form as well. 

"I'm considering our options and the likelihood we have of succeeding at any of them," his thumbs stroke back and forth across the smooth leather. His hands close in on the buckle before Clint can think of a response, and then he's unbuckling the belt and Clint isn't trying to think at all. The belt falls slack and Phil deftly undoes the button and zipper. He gives Clint's hip a prompting pat. Clint holds his breath as he elevates himself enough to let Phil pull down his pants and underwear in one go. Being laid bare like this shouldn't feel so weighty. He finds that biting his lip is now a much more satisfying counter to his nervousness. Phil's fingers move in soothing, tiny motions where they grip the outside of his thighs. He stares at Clint's half-hard cock, which only makes Clint twitch. 

Phil looks up at him through his lashes, "Guess this is something we're going to have to figure out together, huh?"

Clint reaches down to comb his fingers through Phil's hair, "When isn't it?"

He doesn't know if he should be embarrassed or not, but figures that it's probably good for him that he doesn't know. And Phil doesn't seem to mind anything he's said or done so far. He blows out a calming breath to wick away the nervousness and fits his other hand at the base of Phil's skull. 

He feels it - motions telegraphed - as Phil moves in; distantly registered heat in the small space between their bodies, the growing slack in his own arm as the necessity to stretch decreases, Phil's breath on his cock. 

Clint inhales as Phil nudges at him with the tip of his nose in forewarning, but he still jumps when the wide flat of Phil's tongue makes contact. He licks a long stripe to the tip which he pauses to play with. It punches soft little grunts out of Clint and it only feels like seconds before he's totally hard. Phil moves back down the shaft of his cock, mouth widened and lips suctioned tight across his width. Clint holds his hips down but he can feel the tightness building in his thighs, both of which Phil still has a strong grip on. He scritches the short hairs at the top of Phil's neck - knows that it'll feel good - and is rewarded with a soft hum and the feeling of tension melting slowly away. His fingers on Clint's thighs relieve some of their pressure but Clint groans at the thought of the light bruises that may already be forming. He can  _bruise_  now, and he's going to be marked by Phil. He wants to return the favor but is willing to wait - enjoying what's going on between his thighs at the moment. Phil moves back up to lap at the head and Clint finds that he can't stop gasping. 

"Phil- oh! Ph-Phil, you gotta stop. Just- Phil, c'mon," his thighs jerk as Phil gets in a few last swipes with his tongue. But he complies and lets Clint tug at him with hands around his biceps as he crawls up over his body. They worm up the bed together to give themselves room to work. 

"Y'okay?" Phil asks, mouthing along his neck.

Clint lets out half a groan, "Fine, just-" he finds Phil's mouth with his own and settles into a long, deep kiss. He whines then gasps as they separate. 

"Just- I just really wanted to kiss you. Also, I think I was about to come."

Phil chuffs a bark of laughter then goes right back to kissing him. Clint leans into the hand he's got on the side of his neck as he works to get between their bodies and undo Phil's pants. He goes back and forth between concentrating on the kiss and his fingers, but eventually he's working a hand into Phil's shorts and making a fist around a heavy dick. Phil humps into it willingly. The hand that isn't clasped against Clint's neck moves up to cup against his chest. Clint wiggles to get more friction against it, because the weight feels nice, but Phil quickly takes the hint. When he starts playing with Clint's nipple, Clint hums into his mouth and gives an unprefaced squeeze to the dick he's still palming. 

"More," Phil says against his mouth. Clint squeezes again and Phil rumbles low at the back of his throat. "Tighter, squeeze tighter." Clint narrows the circumference of his grip and tries to increase the speed of his strokes as well. Phil leans heavily into the arm braced beside Clint's head and with that hand, starts to absently play with Clint's hair. Clint squirms, and hikes up one leg over Phil's hip. It takes him a minute to find his words. 

"Take off your pants," he manages to demand, "Wanna rub us together."

A grunt falls from Phil's mouth and he nods. The hand on Clint's neck leaves a cool spot in it's absence, but Clint's too busy helping Phil work his underwear halfway down his thighs to care much.  

Phil's forehead drops to rest against Clint's. There's a moment where they just breathe together; Phil toying with Clint's chest and Clint tugging slowly at Phil's cock. Then Clint rolls his hips upward and they're pressed, sliding together. Phil hisses and his hand flinches against Clint's chest. Clint whines as he wiggles up and down, trying to keep and improve this truly fantastic contact, but struggling to maintain his raised hips. It only succeeds in rucking his shirt up a little. Phil notices the newly bared skin and decides that over-the-shirt just isn't good enough when he can have more. His hand is hot on Clint's abdomen and Clint gasps and drops his hips as Phil blazes a trail back up his chest. Phil buries his face in the crook of Clint's neck and Clint decides that if just Phil's hand feels that nice, the warmth of a whole torso pressing into him is gonna feel a million times better. He gets both of his hands between them to fumble at Phil's buttons and it's a lot easier this time without mouth-kissing to distract him, although the fingers on his chest and the mouth on his neck almost make up for it. He's proud of himself when he wrangles Phil's tie off without choking him or interrupting anything - and then he's undoing the last buttons of the shirt and pulling Phil's torso down to meet his. Phil pushes Clint's shirt up to his armpits and sweeps his hand around to the concave of his back, which only serves to firmly seal their bodies together. Clint humps upwards until he manages to line their dicks up and is rewarded with a low hum and a nip to his neck, where Phil still has his face buried. Clint wraps his arms around Phil's back and  _clings_. 

"Phil," he whispers, "God,  _Phil_."

The way they're moving together lights up nerves he'd never even imagined. Both of their dicks are drooling and that combined with the building sheen of sweat makes the slide easy. They're pulled so  _close_  - Phil's heartbeat imprints itself onto Clint from his stomach, and his chest, and his cock. Clint digs his heel into the back of Phil's thigh where he still has his leg hitched up. 

"I've got you," Phil whispers back, "Go on, you're almost there. We're so close, Clint," he groans, "Almost there, almost there." Phil's fingers dig further into the muscle at the small of Clint's back. 

"'S so good. Don't wanna stop," Clint slurs. 

"I know, I know. But it'll feel even better in a second," he's talking softly right into Clint's ear and the puffs of air feel so intimate - like another secret they're sharing. Phil laughs softly, "And we can always do it again, later."

Clint whines and turns his head to press their mouths together again. 

"Love you so much," he whispers, because it's been too long since he's said it. 

Phil grunts softly, and his pace stutters, "Love you too." Clint brings a hand up to the base of his neck. Phil lets out a choked groan. " _Fuck_ , Clint," is all he says before he's spurting between them - startling, hot wetness making the slide even slicker as he rides out his orgasm. And whether it's the choked out expletive or the come pouring over his own stomach and cock, Clint can't tell what makes him break, but moments later, he's curling into Phil as his own climax overtakes him. 

They move together until they're both spent, sucking in heaving breaths with their chests still pressed even. Phil's hand is shaking from holding tension so long, when he draws it out from between Clint's back and the mattress. He holds it against the side of Clint's rib cage and the shaking becomes less noticeable. Clint closes his eyes and wonders at how his limbs feel like jello. His arms are still wrapped around Phil's back and neck, keeping him plastered tight and close. They lie together quietly as their heartbeats slow down. 

Phil mouths at the junction of Clint's neck and shoulder. He shifts to lay a line of slack-mouthed kisses up his throat and ends at the bolt of his jaw. He puts pressure on his forearm again and Clint whines as he draws away. It's pitiful and needy, but Clint's never claimed to be anything else. Phil puts a hand to the side of Clint's face and leans back in to buss Clint's cheek and forehead. With another small noise, Clint lets him prop himself up, separating their tacky stomachs and groins. He looks down at the mess smeared across him and shivers - residual arousal and lack of another body's heat leaving him wanting. He bites his lip, aware that another whine would be pointless when he can just ask for attention.

Phil's reaching for the hem of Clint's shirt where it sits high on his chest, though. With a tug, he shimmies and shifts enough to be helpful in getting it off. 

"We really should go wash up," Phil says.

Clint shakes his head lazily, "Not worth it."

"I would like to mark down your words for the record and also guarantee otherwise. But I know it isn't going to make a difference in your stance." Phil takes the soft shirt and starts to wipe them both down as best he can. Clint watches his face, lying there unhelpfully and basking in the attention. 

"Will you kiss me again?" he asks softly as Phil wads the shirt up and tosses it onto the floor beyond the end of the bed.

"Of course," Phil whispers back, already leaning in. His mouth stays sweet and gentle against Clint's. Clint plays with the short hair at the base of Phil's skull as they lap at each other's mouths. This time, when they break, he lets Phil sit up without protest and watches as he leans over to tug Clint's pants off entirely and drop them beyond the foot of the bed. Clint decides that he likes Phil undressing him. 

He stands to divest himself of his own clothing and Clint makes a note to admire all the lovely lines he can see now that there's distance to notice them. He fully intends to get a closeup view in the near future since he's seen what to look for; muscles and bone shape and freckles and veins. 

Clint rolls over onto his stomach and pillows his head on his forearms. He and Phil grin at each other as Phil climbs back onto the bed and scoots towards him. His hand smooths the way, stretching across the sheets in the space between them and up onto the prominent, low dip of Clint's back. Phil seems to enjoy the sensation of soft skin wrapped over a surprising amount of muscle. His hand moves up Clint's back to his brawny shoulders as he settles on his side. Clint edges towards him and mirrors him. Phil's hand doesn't budge from its place on his shoulderblade, and the corner of his mouth lifts in amusement. 

"What a way to start life as a real person." 

Clint bursts into laughter and throws his head back. He shakes hard enough to fall onto his back, unable to remain propped. Phil snickers at him and leans in to nibble along his throat as he giggles until there are tears in his eyes. 

"Yeah," Clint lets his laughter melt off into sighs, "I guess we set the bar pretty high for ourselves."

Phil noses at his cheek and strokes his hand up and down Clint's side, "You look beautiful when you're laughing."

Clint blushes mildly and wraps his arms around Phil to pull him over top of him. "I'm glad you think so."

Phil leans down and kisses at Clint's collarbone, using a little teeth until Clint shivers. He eases up and nuzzles against Clint's chest. 

Clint takes a stuttered breath and exhales it as a sigh, "I'm tired."

"I'm not surprised," Phil tells him, pressing a kiss to his cheek. "You've had a rather eventful day."

"No kidding," he scoffs then pauses deliberately. "What do we do now?"

"Anything we want," Phil tells him - hope and surety lacing his voice. "The world is our oyster," he sighs, snuggling closer. "We could keep doing this. We could create new identities and pick real careers ... And I know how much you loved your mother's store. We could always go back and start up shop there again." 

Clint's heart rate picks up picturing all the grand potential they've got at their fingertips. 

"Maybe we should wrap up this case, first," Phil adds.

"Good idea," Clint sighs. 

"Oh," Phil interrupts his own line of thought, "how'd your stakeout go?"

"Guy's a middle man," Clint yawns, "I'm gonna leave him be and find out what's up. I'll tell you about it tomorrow," he talks through another yawn at the end. 

"Tell me tomorrow," Phil says, stretching across his body to tug the blanket out from beneath them. 

"'S what I said," Clint mumbles, eyes opened enough to prove he's awake, even if he's fading fast. Phil hums noncommittally but Clint's too tired to care about it in any context beyond face value. Phil shifts Clint's body around for him and then pulls the blanket back up over them both. Clint sighs when he finally settles, tugging Clint closer and curling on his side against him. Clint loops his arm over Phil's back and lets the other one get squished between their torsos. 

Yeah, he's never gonna need to wish on a star again.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And they quit their life of crime to go back to Waverly where they found his mother's store exactly as they'd left it and used the space to start a flower shop, and they lived happily ever after. The End.

**Author's Note:**

> You've reached the end of the line. Thank you for joining me on another tour of the Marvel Universe. Your attention, in addition to kudos and comments, is appreciated. Please exit safely, and mind the gap.  
> You can find me on tumblr at my [ Marvel blog](mrwonderwoman.tumblr.com).
> 
>  **If you liked this story you may also like:**  
> [Granting Wishes](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3418028) by [knight_tracer](http://archiveofourown.org/users/knight_tracer/pseuds/knight_tracer), [RsCreighton](http://archiveofourown.org/users/RsCreighton/pseuds/RsCreighton), & [samanthahirr](http://archiveofourown.org/users/samanthahirr/pseuds/samanthahirr)  
> [Match Made in Heaven](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1099500/) by [Selenay](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Selenay/pseuds/Selenay)  
> [The fox and the prince](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4790582) by [Morethancupcake](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Morethancupcake/pseuds/Morethancupcake)


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